Portal to the Past
by FemaleChauvinist
Summary: When Sisko is trapped in a holosuite program of the Old South, Bashir fears what will be done to him in that world. Until they can find a way to get him back, his only hope is if Bashir traps himself as well.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** While the attempt has been made to be medically accurate, some artistic license has been taken, and statements made by Dr Bashir are not to be regarded as authoritative. The Manthracite race is a product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to the name of a canon Star Trek race is unintentional. Recognizable characters and plotlines are the property of Paramount and Viacom; all original characters and story © 2019 FemaleChauvinist.

_Do not post without permission. Do not copy/print without including the above disclaimer in its entirety._

**A/N: "Season" given for timing reference only; see my profile for the alternate history used in this story. Barbie**

**Prologue**

_Late season 2/early season 3_

"What can I get for you?" Quark asked the man leaning casually against his bar.

The man smiled slowly. "I have a business proposition to make, if you have somewhere private we could go."

He had appeared Terran until he smiled, revealing teeth that came to sharp points. Having noticed that, the eye began to pick out other details that made him unquestionably alien; the eyes so dark they appeared to have no pupil, the faint hint of scales along his hairline.

None of that mattered to Quark. The majority of visitors to his bar were alien, and he included earth humans in that category as well. What concerned him was whether or not a person could pay, and this man's tone hinted at a deal that might well be advantageous to Quark.

He glanced around the bar to find Rom, waving him over to watch the counter before he beckoned the visitor into one of the back rooms. "This way, sir; what sort of 'proposition' is it?"

The man pulled a datastick from his pocket, setting it on the table between them as he took the seat toward which Quark gestured him. "A new holosuite program," he said in a low voice, his very tone increasing Quark's desire to have it.

"How much?" Quark asked, forgetting to question even what the program might contain or if it was worth his money to purchase.

The man smiled smoothly. "Free…with one condition."

"What?" Quark asked, practically salivating.

"Commander Sisko has to be the first person to use it — for free. And make it sound like your idea. After that, you can charge as much as you like for others to use it."

"And you don't want a percentage?" Quark asked suspiciously.

The man shook his head, still smiling. "Just know that I have my ways of finding out whether my condition was met, and of making things…unpleasant for you if it wasn't. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Quark said instantly; even if the program turned out to be of little financial value he had lost nothing, and could at least gain some latinum from it if he billed it as a mysterious program of alien origin.

The man pushed the data solid across the table toward him, and Quark's hand closed on it greedily. "Will you have a drink…on the house?" The words came reluctantly, but it was the least he could offer.

The man shook his head. "Just remember, Sisko tries it first." His eyes met Quark's and seemed to become even blacker; for a moment Quark felt sure he would fall into their depths and be lost forever, and he wondered just what he had agreed to.

But the man turned and left the room, and Quark shook off any misgivings he might have had. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	2. Open Portal

**Chapter One: Open Portal**

Fifteen-year-old Jake Sisko tossed and caught a baseball one-handed as he walked through the Deep Space Nine corridors beside his father. He couldn't keep the grin off his face; Commander Sisko had been promising him a game in the holosuite for days, and had finally been able to make time. He was on duty again in only an hour; in the interests of spending as much of that time as possible with his son, he had opted not to change out of his Starfleet uniform.

As they entered the bar, Jake cast surreptitious glances toward the gaming tables, and Sisko wished once again that the entrance to the holosuites wasn't located in Quark's. It hadn't mattered as much when Jake had been younger, but now he was beginning to be curious about the gambling, and definitely attracted by the girls.

Fortunately it was early yet; only a handful of patrons stood playing with one dabo girl attending them. After another quick look in their direction, Jake hurried to catch up with his father as he strode purposefully toward the counter.

Seeing the commander enter, Quark hurried out to meet him. In the week since he had acquired the program, he had been having second thoughts about the deal he had struck. Out of range of the strange man's influence, it had occurred to him that it hadn't been good business sense to accept even a free program without first finding out what it contained. Perhaps also feeling a niggling disquiet about the man's reasons for wanting Sisko to be the first to use the program, he had put off contacting the commander, telling himself that the stranger had not set a time limit, but only said that Sisko must be the first.

But on seeing Commander Sisko himself walk into the bar, he pushed those doubts aside, thinking only of the profit when he was free to start charging for use of the program.

"My dear Sisko!" he exclaimed, greeting the commander with a toothy smile.

Sisko frowned. "'My dear'? You only call me that when you want something, Quark; what is it?"

"You wound me, Commander!" Quark protested.

Sisko shook his head. "Out with it, Quark," he insisted. "Jake and I want to get on with our ballgame."

"Yeah!" Jake agreed enthusiastically, tossing the ball once more but stopping at a glance from his father; an ill-thrown baseball had once cost Sisko quite a bit of latinum when it smashed a bottle of expensive liquor.

"Ah, but I have something better — a new program especially for you."

"For how much?" Sisko asked suspiciously.

"For you, free," Quark said, waving a hand expansively and trying to hide his wince.

Sisko squinted. "Now I _know_ you're up to something. What's the catch, Quark?"

"No catch," Quark insisted, putting on a wounded expression. "Just a favor to a friend."

Sisko shook his head. "I'll pass for now, thanks; Jake and I will use our usual."

A crafty glint came into Quark's eye. "That will be two strips of gold-pressed latinum."

"_Double_?" Sisko asked incredulously.

"Unless, of course, you'd prefer to try the new program for free…?"

Sisko sighed, considering. There had to be something in it for Quark that he couldn't fathom, but while he was avaricious, the Ferengi had never been malicious or actively antagonistic to Starfleet; there would be no danger, surely. "It's not an adult program, is it?" he asked cautiously.

"No, of course not," Quark said instantly and with no idea whether or not it was true.

"Jake, do you mind?"

"I guess not," Jake said, trying to hide his disappointment.

"We'll give it fifteen minutes," Sisko said, turning back to Quark. "Then we'll switch to our baseball program…at half price for the time lost."

"Seventy-five percent," Quark countered.

"Fair enough," Sisko agreed. "Come on, Jake, let's see what this new program's about so we can get on with our game without losing any more time."

"All right!" Jake agreed enthusiastically.

They followed Quark through the hall to the back and up the short flight of stairs to the holodeck. Quark stopped before one of the doors and began entering settings into the keypad. "Safeties?" he questioned.

"Full," Sisko replied firmly, "unless you can give me some idea of what this program's about," he continued over Jake's groan.

"Aw, Dad!"

"Sorry, Jake," he added, turning to his son. "I know it seems like full safeties are for sissies, but I'm not taking chances for an untried program. Don't worry; we'll lower them for baseball, so you'll feel it if the ball hits you."

"We brought our baseball; I'd feel it anyway," Jake pointed out. "And weren't _you_ the one who had to see Dr Bashir after our last game?"

Sisko grinned wryly. "I'm not as young as I once was," he admitted ruefully.

"There; you're all set," Quark announced, stepping back from the control pad.

"You set the timer for fifteen minutes?"

"Of course."

Jake and Sisko exchanged a glance. "Well, shall we?"

Jake shrugged. "I'm game if you are." Together, father and son stepped into the holosuite.

As the door slid closed, a scene solidified into view around them. "This looks similar to where I grew up," Sisko remarked, looking around him.

"Louisiana?"

"One of the southern states, anyway."

"Maybe that's why Quark wanted you to try it; to let you go home for a while."

"Maybe, but does that really sound like Quark? He never does anyone favors for nothing, much less insist on them. Anyway, I just said it looked like Louisiana; it could be any planet with similar plants and climate, or even something completely imaginary."

Jake shrugged, not really caring about an analysis of where they were. "Let's see if we can find something going on," he suggested.

"Suits me," Sisko agreed, turning to start down the lane on which they found themselves.

They had been walking for about five minutes when they heard the sound of hooves and the rattle of wheels. Moments later, an elegant coach pulled by four trotting horses came into view. "Hello!" Sisko called, stepping forward with his hand raised in greeting.

The driver continued on without acknowledging him, so close that Sisko was forced to take a hasty step back lest he be run down — though with the safeties on full, it would have done him no harm in any case.

"Observer-only," Jake said in disgust. "That's the most boring kind of program there is."

"Maybe it's just as well," Sisko said slowly. "From the looks of that coach, this is the _Old_ South. We're black, Jake; I'm not sure we want anyone here taking notice of us."

Jake snorted. "Fine favor Quark did us, then. Look, Dad, do we _have_ to stay here the full fifteen minutes?"

"No," Sisko decided. "Computer, end program."

Nothing around them appeared to have changed, and Sisko raised his voice to try again. "Computer —"

"Look, Dad!" Jake exclaimed, grabbing his father's arm in excitement. He pointed to where glowing green letters appeared to hover about two feet above the ground: OPEN PORTAL.

"Be careful!" Sisko warned as Jake, drawn by some strange allure of the glowing letters, reached out and touched them.

There was no sense of contact, but the letters dissolved into a sparkling, swirling mass of green light. It quickly formed an oval ring that rapidly expanded into an apparent gateway that a six-foot man could step through without stooping. The pinpoints of green light were more scattered now, but still dense enough to form a definite barrier. The scene within the gateway was the same as that outside, but somehow the colors seemed sharper, more real.

Irresistibly drawn toward it, Jake stepped forward as if in a trance. "_No_, Jake!" Commander Sisko cried, springing forward and shoving his son back. He couldn't explain his fear of the strange portal; as merely part of a holoprogram, it should have held no danger. But there was too much that didn't add up in Quark's insistence that he be the first to try it, and something else that went beyond any logical, rational response; perhaps triggered in part by the fact that the portal had appeared only after the computer failed to respond to a command to end the program.

In pushing Jake back, Sisko's hand slipped through the ring, and suddenly he was being pulled by a physical force too strong to resist.

"Dad!" Jake cried, seeing his father being sucked through the swirling portal and suddenly gripped by the same fear that this was more than a holoprogram. Struggling to his feet, he lurched forward in an attempt to either follow his father or grab him and pull him back.

But it was too late. In a split second, the holosuite went dark, and the only sound before Jake's anguished cry was that of Sisko's combadge falling to the floor.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	3. Missing in Action

**Chapter Two: Missing in Action**

Dax sat working on some research at her science station in an almost boringly quiet Ops. She missed Kira's presence, the major having gone on extended leave to Bajor due to the illness of an old friend.

She glanced idly at the chronometer; Sisko would come on duty in a little under an hour, giving her at least someone to talk to.

Not that they would talk; they had been friends too long to need conversation every minute. But his presence would at least relieve the almost palpable silence that hampered her ability to think until she thought she might scream.

She jumped slightly when the silence was shattered by the beep of the communicator, then laughed at herself as she looked up almost eagerly in response.

"Sisko to Ops," the computer voice announced.

Dax hit the reply button. "Dax here, Commander."

But instead of the commander's voice she heard Jake's, frantic with fear. "Dax, Dad's gone — he disappeared —"

"Calm down, Jake," Dax interjected smoothly, wondering why she had thought boredom was a bad thing. "Just breathe; now where are you?"

Jake drew a deep breath that was almost a sob, then spoke a little more calmly. "In the holosuite. Some kind of portal opened up, and Dad was pulled in when he shoved me back."

"Stay where you are," Dax instructed him. "I'm coming down to you as soon as I call someone up to watch Ops."

"Thanks," Jake whispered hollowly.

Dax ended the communication, then pressed the button again to call up the nearest on-duty officer.

"Trouble, sir?" he questioned.

"Maybe," Dax admitted, unwilling to say more until she had further details herself. "Just watch the station, and call if there's any trouble."

"Will do, sir," he agreed easily, sliding into the seat and leaning back comfortably.

Dax left Ops quickly and strode rapidly through the station, tapping her combadge as she went. "Dax to Bashir."

"Bashir here," the doctor's voice responded instantly. "What's wrong?"

"I just got a call from Jake on his father's combadge in the holosuite; Commander Sisko seems to have disappeared."

"He _what_?"

"That's what Jake said; I don't know any more about it than that. I'm on my way there now, and I'd like you to meet me there. I don't know what kind of state Sisko's going to be in if we find him, and Jake sounded like he might need something for shock."

"Understood; I'm on my way. Bashir out."

**oOo**

Dax, Bashir, and Miles O'Brian converged on the promenade just before Quark's, and Dax looked at the engineer in some surprise. "Did Bashir call you?" she questioned.

O'Brien shook his head. "Quark called; said the power's out to his whole bar. Why; what's wrong?"

"I got a frantic call from Jake in one of the holosuites; apparently Commander Sisko has disappeared."

"The power going out to a holosuite couldn't make someone using it vanish, could it?" Bashir questioned.

"More likely the other way around; whatever made him vanish also shorted out the power."

They had been walking as they spoke, and now encountered a flow of patrons being ushered out by Odo over Quark's protests that the lights would be on in a few minutes, if everyone would just sit down and have another drink while they waited. Dax didn't question the chief constable's presence; Odo seemed to have some kind of sixth sense as far as trouble at Quark's was concerned.

Dax pushed her way against the flow of traffic with murmured words of apology, and Quark pounced on O'Brien as soon as he spotted him in the dim emergency lights. "Chief! Tell Odo everyone can stay; you'll have the lights back up in just a minute."

"I'm afraid I have to ask O'Brien to help investigate something a little more important than your lights, Quark," Dax cut in.

"What? But my profits — if I don't have any customers —"

"Frankly, I couldn't care less right now about your profits or customers; Commander Sisko has disappeared."

For an instant, Quark was stunned into silence. "Disa-disappeared?"

"Yes. Now, if you will be so kind as to show us which holosuite he was using…"

"Of course," Quark murmured, subdued, glancing uneasily at Odo as he frantically wondered how to avoid implicating himself. He silently cursed the stranger who had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

He led the way to the holosuites, stopping in front of one of the doors. As Dax hit the switch to open the door manually, Quark sidled toward the control panel.

"None of that!" Odo exclaimed, grabbing his arm.

"I was just —" Quark began, faltering to a stop and glancing wildly from side to side as he realized he had no idea what to claim to have been doing.

"We don't want any settings changed until we find out exactly what happened," O'Brien said sternly.

Barely noticing the brief dispute behind him, Bashir had run into the room as soon as Dax had the doors open. Jake sat crumpled in the middle of the floor, rocking slightly back and forth and clutching his father's combadge.

Bashir hurried to kneel at his side, one hand on Jake's shoulder, his tricorder already out in the other. "Are you all right?"

A brief movement of Jake's head in Dr Bashir's direction was the only sign that he had heard or was even aware of the doctor's presence.

Bashir glanced at the tricorder. The readings confirmed his initial diagnosis of shock, but showed nothing that required immediate treatment. Slipping the instrument back on his belt, Bashir wrapped an arm around Jake's shoulders, pulling the boy against him. "We'll get him back," he vowed softly. "I promise you, we'll get him back."

Jake drew a long, shuddering breath and then reached up to clutch Bashir's uniform, burying his face in the doctor's shoulder as the tears began to flow. Bashir wrapped his other arm around him as well and held him tightly as he wept.

Dax waited perhaps five minutes before stepping forward. Crouching in front of them, she put a hand on Jake's shoulder. "Jake," she said softly, loathe to interrupt what she knew to be a necessary step in Jake's processing of what had happened, but needing also to find out exactly what _had_ happened as soon as possible.

Jake lifted his head, swallowing hard to control himself as tears still streamed down his face. "I-I'm all right," he said huskily, wiping his sleeve across his face.

Bashir gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then gently eased him to sit upright on his own.

"Here," Miles said, offering the rag that hung at his belt and had only been slightly used to wipe grease off his fingers.

"Thanks," Jake said, taking it and blowing his nose. He held it out, and with a slight grimace Miles accepted it back, in the same gesture grabbing Jake's hand and pulling him to his feet.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dax questioned as she and Bashir also rose.

Jake half unconsciously took a step closer to Bashir, taking comfort in the feel of human warmth beside him. Reaching up, Bashir rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Go on," he encouraged softly.

"We came to use our baseball program," Jake explained a little shakily, "but Quark said he had another program he wanted us to try — for free — and he was going to charge us double for the baseball unless we agreed."

"Quark?" Dax exclaimed, spinning around. But the Ferengi had disappeared as surely as Commander Sisko had. "Odo —"

"I'll find him," the constable promised grimly.

Dax turned back to Jake. "All right; go on."

"It was an observer-only program, but Dad said that might be a good thing, because it looked like the Old South, and we're black. It was boring, though, and we were gonna shut it down and go on to our baseball program. But when Dad told the computer to end program, it didn't, and that's when the portal showed up."

"Portal?" Dax questioned.

"Yeah…it was weird. These glowing green letters showed up that said, 'open portal,' and I can't explain it, but it was like I couldn't _not_ touch them. When I did, the portal opened, and you could see that it was…different on the other side."

"Different, how?" Dax questioned.

Jake shrugged. "I don't know; I can't explain. It just looked more…real. I still felt like I had to go through it, but Dad pushed me back. He got too close, though, and it-it caught him." He gulped back another sob, and Bashir squeezed his shoulder.

"He was pulled in, and that's when the power shut off. Only-only his combadge didn't go through." Jake's fingers clutched convulsively at the little insignia.

"O'Brien, how long until you can get the power back on?" Dax asked.

O'Brien shrugged. "Depends what the problem is."

"Get on it," Dax ordered. "Bashir, let's get Jake down to the bar to wait."

Bashir nodded, turning to usher Jake from the holosuite as Dax tapped her combadge to call security to send up a guard to ensure nothing in the holosuite was disturbed.

"Here, have a seat," Bashir encouraged gently.

Jake wordlessly took a seat on one of the barstools, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning his forehead in his hands.

Bashir walked around the counter and began going through the bottles underneath, sniffing their contents until he found the nonalcoholic lemonade Quark used as a mixer. Taking a glass down, he poured a generous amount and set it in front of Jake. "Drink that," he told him, the firm tone of his voice leaving no doubt it was doctor's orders. "You need to get some sugar and fluid in your system." He looked up as Dax came down the stairs from the holosuites. "Want a lemonade, Dax? On the house."

Dax smiled faintly as she took the stool beside Jake with a sigh. "Sure. And I won't tell Quark you're playing bartender, either. Thanks," she added as he placed the drink in front of her.

Bashir poured another for himself, then came around the bar to sit on Jake's other side. "Drink, Jake," he reminded him.

Bashir's and Dax's glasses were nearly empty, and Jake's half so at the doctor's continued urging, when the lights in the bar flickered suddenly. Jake jerked his head up; staring directly at one of the lights, he was forced to close his eyes against the sudden brightness when the power came on fully several seconds later. "Let's go get Dad!"

"I doubt it's going to be that simple, Jake," Dax warned, blinking herself at the rapid adjustment from the dim emergency lights. "We'll go up and see if we can find out what we're dealing with, but I don't want you doing anything without my permission, understand?"

Jake nodded but seemed barely to have heard, and Dax shared a look with Bashir. Nodding acknowledgement of her unspoken command to keep an eye and, if necessary, a hand on the boy, he drained his glass and stood up. "Come on, then, Jake," he urged with false cheerfulness. He was sure Dax was right; getting Sisko back wasn't going to be a simple matter.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	4. Reconstructing Events

**Chapter Three: Reconstructing Events**

The security guard nodded at them as they approached the holosuite door, Miles joining them moments later. "Well, I think that did it. Looked like a power surge that shorted out the wiring. Any luck here?"

Dax shook her head. "We haven't gone in yet; I don't want to disturb anything that might affect where Commander Sisko is trapped."

"Admirable, but we have to start somewhere," O'Brien said dryly. "These suites are designed to pick up a program where you left off, so unless the surge wiped the short-term memory, we should at least be able to do that."

Dax nodded and gestured for Miles to enter the holosuite first. She followed, and then Bashir guided Jake inside.

O'Brien waited until the door had slid shut behind him. "Computer, resume last used program."

Jake gripped Bashir's arm, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh. "Maybe…Dad'll just be…_there_," he whispered.

Bashir shook his head, doubting it would be that simple, but said nothing to dash the boy's hopes as the scene flickered into view around them.

"Is this it, Jake?" Dax questioned.

"It…looks like the same place," Jake said hesitantly, releasing Bashir's arm and taking a step forward. Dr Bashir took the opportunity to rub his bruised arm without Jake noticing.

"I can see why you found this boring," Miles remarked.

"Yeah. About the only thing that happened was that a horse and carriage drove by; when they didn't answer us we realized it was observer-only."

"Don't know what you were supposed to 'observe' around here," Miles remarked.

"They weren't meant to," Dax said grimly. "The whole purpose of this holoprogram is the portal. Jake, how did you say it opened again?"

"It showed up when Dad tried to end the program," Jake remembered.

"All right, then. Computer, end program."

Again nothing changed except for the appearance of the strangely glowing green letters. "There they are," Jake whispered, mysteriously drawn to them once more, the effect lessened only slightly by his knowledge of what had happened.

"Careful, Jake!" Dax warned sharply. Bashir grabbed Jake's arm just as he once more reached out and touched the letters. As the portal swirled open, Dr Bashir pulled Jake back against himself, holding him securely. "Stay back, Jake."

"No!" Jake cried, struggling against him. "Dad's in there, Doctor; I have to go after him!"

"And how will your being lost as well help your father any?" Bashir asked reasonably. "We'll get him back, Jake, but we have to think carefully and not do things rashly."

"No lifesigns in there," Dax murmured, looking at her tricorder screen.

"But he _is_ in there; he is!"

"All right, Jake; all Dax means is that he's out of range, or something's blocking the tricorder. Dax, we don't need Jake here anymore, do we?"

"No," Dax agreed just as her combadge beeped.

"Odo to Dax."

"Dax here."

"I have Quark."

"Good. Take him to Ops; we'll meet you there. Dax out. Julian, take Jake —"

"I don't want to stay in our quarters by myself," Jake interrupted.

"Of course not," Dax agreed. "Miles —"

"Yes," Miles agreed without even needing to hear the full question. "He can stay with us until the commander's back; I'll call Keiko and let her know he's coming."

Julian glanced back to where he knew the door to be. "Just how are we going to get out of here?" He was fairly certain he knew the door's exact location now, but if he attempted to walk toward it, the scene would imperceptibly shift around him, so that he could believe himself to be walking miles in a straight line when he was actually circling the thirty-foot holosuite.

"Computer, end program," Dax tried again, thinking perhaps it would respond now that the portal was open.

"Obviously, we aren't meant to leave except through the portal," Miles said grimly.

Bashir considered whether he could find the door if he closed his eyes to shut out the deceptive scenery.

Dax grinned almost slyly. "They didn't expect us to have someone on the outside." She tapped her combadge. "Dax to McGuthrie."

"McGuthrie here," the security officer responded. "Is everything all right, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, but the computer won't respond; I need you to do a manual override and open the door from that side."

"Understood, sir."

Several minutes later the door slid open, looking like another portal as it stood apparently in the middle of nothing, and Bashir felt a moment's disappointment. He would have liked to find out whether he could block his senses sufficiently to find the door, and made a mental note to try it sometime. "Come on, Jake," he urged, keeping his firm hold with one hand on the boy's shoulder and the other arm around his waist. As Bashir pulled him toward the exit, Jake turned to look over the doctor's shoulder at the portal where his father had disappeared.

"Miles, call Keiko and then meet me in Ops; Bashir, join us there as soon as you have Jake settled. McGuthrie, no one touches this suite."

"Understood, sir," the guard replied. Miles stepped to the side to call Keiko, and Bashir once again urged Jake on. The boy came unresisting now; not so much willingly but as if he had suddenly ceased to care.

Bashir glanced down at him with concerned eyes as they took the shortest route to the O'Briens' quarters. By the time they reached the door, Jake was trembling all over, staring straight ahead without seeing and nearly sagging against the doctor. Supporting Jake with one hand, he hit the door chime with the other hand.

The door slid open immediately; knowing they were coming Keiko didn't bother to ask for identification. "Is he all right?" she asked anxiously.

Bashir glanced down again at the boy on his arm. "Shock, I think; he needs to lie down."

"Bring him in here," Keiko said instantly, leading the way to their small living area.

Bashir half carried Jake to the sofa and gently eased him down. Kneeling, he removed Jake's boots and propped his feet up on the end of the sofa. Bending over him, he scanned him once more, confirming his diagnosis of shock. "He'll be fine," he murmured to Keiko, pulling a hypospray from his medkit and checking the contents before injecting it. Resting a hand on Jake's pulse, he watched as the boy's breathing evened and he drifted to sleep.

"He'll be out a good few hours," Bashir told Keiko, getting to his feet. "I'll try to be back to check on him at least once before he wakes up, but don't hesitate to call me if something concerns you."

"I will," Keiko promised. "You go on now…help them find his father."

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	5. Laying Blame

**Chapter Four: Laying Blame**

"It really wasn't my fault!" Quark was whimpering as Julian entered Ops. The Ferengi seemed somehow shriveled as he cringed in Odo's firm grasp.

"Quiet!" Dax ordered. "We'll hear your side of the story, but I've had enough of your whining." She turned toward Julian as he slipped into his place. "How's Jake?"

"Sleeping," Dr Bashir responded. "I had to sedate him because he was going into shock as the adrenaline wore off, but he should be fine."

"Did you take him to the infirmary?" O'Brian asked.

Bashir shook his head. "I left him with Keiko; he shouldn't need medical monitoring or any further intervention, and when he wakes I think it will be better for him to be in a home environment. I'll check on him later, but the best thing for him would be to be able to tell him we have a way to get his father back."

Dax nodded and turned to Quark. "All right, what do you have to say for yourself? And don't just tell me it's not your fault; if that's really true I want to know who _was_ behind it and exactly what happened."

Quark glanced around fearfully, but there seemed to be no hope for it. However the stranger might or might not be keeping tabs on him, any threat he offered was less immediate than that posed by Odo. Even as he considered, the shapeshifter's grip tightened on his shoulder, and Quark made a sound that was half whimper and half squeal. "All right! I'll tell you everything, just don't blame me!"

"That depends entirely on how much you were at fault," Dax said sternly. "Now talk."

"It was the stranger," Quark whimpered.

"What stranger?"

"I don't know; he never told me his name."

"All right; we'll leave that for now. It was this stranger who wanted Sisko to try the new holosuite program?"

"Yes! He said he would give it to me for free; the only stipulation was that Sisko had to be the first to use it…I didn't see the harm."

"Did you make any effort to find out what this program was about?"

"No…"

"That's a bit extreme, Quark, even for you; how did you know it would be worth anything?"

"If it wasn't, I hadn't lost anything," Quark pointed out.

"Maybe not, but did it never even occur to you that this stranger might have nefarious reasons for wanting Sisko to be the first to try it?"

Quark only shook his head mutely; to admit his later doubts would put more blame on him for following through on the stranger's condition.

"You said you didn't recognize him," Dax pressed. "Can you at least describe him; what species was he?"

"I don't know," Quark whimpered. "He looked sort of human." He waved a hand vaguely to include both races present in his use of the term.

"So humanoid, but not Terran or Trill…and I assume you'd recognize a Bajoran if you saw one, so we can rule them out as well. When was this?"

"About…a month ago?"

Quark must have had his own doubts, Dax mused as she turned toward the computer, to wait so long to try a potentially lucrative holoprogram. Tapping quickly through the screens, she called up a list of what species had officially been on the station roughly a month ago. Eliminating the ones whose appearance was vastly different from Earth human, she brought generic images of the others up on the screen. "All right, Quark; was it any of these races?"

"That one," Quark pointed out without hesitation.

"Manthracite," Bashir murmured, leaning to look over Dax's shoulder. "That explains why Quark didn't ask any questions, anyway."

"How do you mean?" Dax questioned, twisting to look up at him.

"Manthracites have the ability to increase whatever emotion someone is currently feeling. It would have increased his natural avarice, to the point of overriding whatever caution he had."

Quark looked suspiciously at Bashir, inclined to take it as a compliment because of the Ferengi view of profit, but unsure whether the doctor meant it that way.

"Fortunately, only one ship docked at the time had Manthracite crew," Dax murmured.

"That were reported," Bashir specified; it was not a requirement for a docking ship to report the race of every person on board.

Dax nodded acknowledgement but didn't concern herself with the truth of the statement; it was rare enough to have Manthracites on the station without speculating whether there might have been more than reported. "_Un_fortunately, that ship left — probably the very day our stranger talked to Quark."

"Coincidence?" Bashir asked sharply.

"I doubt it. He wanted to be out of here before Sisko used the program — just in case Quark talked."

Quark whimpered, and Dax looked at him with a mixture of impatience and disgust. "I can't see that you're actually guilty of anything this time, so you're free to go. You can open up the bar, but the holosuites are closed until further notice."

Quark's eyes widened. "But, my dear Lieutenant —!"

"Quiet!" Dax snapped. "Let me continue to believe that you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize our getting the commander back, or I may have to rethink whether you had anything to do with his disappearance in the first place. Odo, escort him back; besides keeping a guard at the door to that specific holosuite, I want one guarding the steps to the holosuites, and one wherever Quark might have access to the programming."

Odo nodded and led the still shrinking Quark away.

"You don't seriously think he'd sabotage our rescue efforts?" Miles questioned when they had gone.

Dax shook her head. "Not intentionally, no. But he's so concerned about his profits, he might convince himself that using the other holoprograms couldn't possibly hurt."

"He'd probably be right," Miles remarked.

"Maybe," Dax said grimly, "but you know as well as I do we can't take the chance he wouldn't be."

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	6. Rescue Mission

**Chapter Five: Rescue Mission**

"Jake was right about one thing," Bashir said as they seated themselves in the office, "someone has to go in there after him."

Miles was nodding agreement, but Dax frowned. "How would that help anything? It's not as if whoever went after him would be any less trapped and be able to bring him back."

"No, but they could be a lot of help to him while he's there," Bashir said grimly.

"Commander Sisko can take care of himself," Dax insisted.

"Not in the Old South, he can't," Bashir retorted. "Do you know anything about United States history?"

"On Earth? No, not really," Dax admitted, shaking her head.

"In the era it looks like the holosuite is depicting, blacks in the southern United States were slaves."

"Blacks?" Dax questioned.

"People of African descent with dark skin. Sisko is a descendant of those slaves, and now he's going to find out what it's like to be one."

"Just because of his skin color?" Dax asked in puzzlement. "That seems like so little to base prejudice on."

"Yes," Bashir remarked dryly, "we've found things that are so much more significant to base it on now. Anyway, a white Terran — preferably male, since women didn't have all that many rights, either — needs to go through to buy the commander."

"I'll go, Julian," Miles offered instantly.

Bashir shook his head. "You'll be more useful here trying to figure out how to get us back."

"'Us,' Julian?" Dax asked with raised eyebrows.

"I'm the only other ranking Terran male," Bashir pointed out. "Besides, a space station commander does not a good slave make; if they've punished him as harshly as history says they did, he'll need a doctor's care."

Dax sighed. "I'll take your word for it that you're needed, then."

"But, Julian, you're none too pale yourself," Miles objected. "Didn't they count anyone with one drop of African blood as black?"

Bashir grinned. "I'll come across as so British that they won't think to question."

"And if they do?" Miles persisted.

Bashir shrugged. "I don't know how they felt about the Middle East, but I can always claim some Mediterranean heritage if I have to; Spanish or Italian. Anyway, plenty of Caucasians tan this dark, and I've never had a problem in a Civil War holosuite before."

"This one's a little different," Miles said seriously.

"Yes, but it sounds like it was meant for Sisko; it won't have been programmed to discriminate against someone with skin just a shade darker."

"I hope you're right."

"We'll have to assume it is, if you both think it's likely Sisko will need a doctor," Dax decided.

Miles nodded reluctantly. "From the holoprograms I've seen of that time…it does seem likely."

"Then, Bashir, you have orders to go through as soon as you can get ready."

Bashir nodded crisply. "Yes, sir. I'll be bringing my tricorder and regenerators; since it's only a holosuite and not the real past, I don't have to worry about temporal regulations."

"No, but Sisko's combadge didn't make it through; I'm not sure any modern equipment will, either."

"Mm, good point," Bashir murmured. "Dax, can you do the research and replicate me some 1860s medical equipment and enough money to be sure of buying Sisko?"

Dax nodded, though an expression of distaste crossed her face at the thought of buying another human being. "You'll need clothes as well, I assume? Sisko went back in his uniform, but better for you not to stand out even if it _isn't_ the real past."

"True, but I think I'll talk to Garak about that, if it's all the same to you."

Dax shrugged. "I don't suppose it makes a difference."

Bashir glanced at the chronometer as he got to his feet. "And in the interests of being ready to leave as soon as possible tomorrow morning, I'll go talk to him now and then stop in and check on Jake."

"What's the hurry?" Dax questioned. "Even if it is as bad as you say, surely that much couldn't happen to him in one day."

Bashir shook his head. "You tell her, Miles," he tossed over his shoulder.

"In one day, maybe not," Miles agreed as the door slid shut behind the doctor. "But time in holosuites doesn't run the same as real time; you might think you've been there an hour when it's only been five minutes. Depending on how accelerated this program's timeline is, who knows how long he'll have been there from his point of view before Bashir rescues him."

**oOo**

Early the next morning, the group met once again at the doors to the holosuite. Jake had begged to be allowed to come see Bashir off, and with the doctor's permission Dax had reluctantly agreed.

Bashir himself arrived last, carrying a top hat and cane in one hand and adjusting a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. "Well? How do I look?" he questioned, spreading his arms to give the full effect.

Miles whistled softly. "Like you stepped straight out of a history book. Are those sideburns real?"

Bashir nodded, rubbing a hand over the whiskers. "I gave myself a treatment with the hair follicle stimulator." Used to treat dishirsutism in species in which loss of hair was a danger to health, the stimulator could also be used to speed growth of hair on normal individuals, the only downside being that its lingering effects might require him to trim the sideburns several times a day.

Dax handed him a black medical case and a moneybag that clinked with the ring of gold coins. "According to my research, that should be enough to purchase the best slave three times over."

Bashir nodded. "Let's get on with it, then."

With a nod and a few murmured words to the guard, Dax stepped forward and keyed in the code to manually open the door.

The holosuite appeared just as they had left it, a quiet landscape of the Old South with the portal glistening and swirling in the middle.

The four of them stepped into the room, and Bashir drew a deep breath. "Well, I guess this is it. Jake —"

But Jake had taken a step forward determinedly. "Don't say goodbye to me; I'm coming with you."

"Jake, you can't," Dr Bashir said gently.

Jake scowled. "I'm fifteen; I'm old enough!"

"It's not that, Jake."

"Then what _is_ it?" Jake demanded.

Bashir sighed. "No offense, Jake…but you're just as black as he is."

"So? I'd be with you; we could say I was your personal slave."

"Maybe," Bashir admitted, "but just how would that help your father any? It would just give me one more person to have to worry about — and one more person for O'Brien to have to worry about getting back. I'm sorry, Jake, but your father would never forgive me if I trapped you there as well."

"Then…what am I supposed to do?" Jake asked in a small voice.

"Wait? Look, Jake, I'm sorry; I know it would be easier if you could feel you were doing something to help. But there's not always anything that _can_ be done."

Jake nodded, dropping his gaze. "Tell him — tell him I miss him?"

"Of course," Bashir said quietly. He put his hands on Jake's shoulders. "I'll find him and keep him safe, Jake…I promise you." He squeezed Jake's shoulders before releasing him, then nodded toward Dax and O'Brien and strode toward the portal without looking back.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	7. Auctioned Off

**Historical Disclaimer: Since this is a holosuite, not real history, I have not made an effort to be a hundred percent historically accurate. However, any racist language is meant to be a reflection of that time, and in no way reflects my opinions.**

**Chapter Six: Auctioned Off**

The hot sun beat down on Sisko's head as he stood on the rough wooden platform, adding to the lightheadedness caused by fever. Splinters dug into his bare feet, but the greater pain in his back eclipsed it until he barely noticed the lesser discomfort. Every motion sent new agony down his back, nearly causing him to faint. But he forced himself to stay on his feet, knowing that to fall would only invite another harsh beating. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the slave auction fade to a feverish dream that seemed to have little to do with him. He almost believed that he could wake and find himself back on the station. And yet when he opened his eyes and saw the auction, it was the station that seemed like a distant dream, making it harder and harder to hope for rescue.

He was brought back to some slight awareness of his senses by a tug on his chain, forcing him to walk in front of the prospective buyers and let them see his qualities. But as the bidding began, the auctioneer's rapid voice soon lulled him back into his daze of half consciousness, only to be brought sharply out of it by the sound of the voice calling out the first bid.

Had it only been his fevered mind making him think he recognized that voice, or was it possible…? The habits of a slave already beginning to be engrained in him, he kept his head half bowed, allowing only his eyes to sweep the crowd. He was beginning to think he must have been mistaken when the voice called out another bid and Sisko's eyes swung toward it, this time able to pinpoint the source.

He would never have been able to recognize Bashir under the hat, sideburns, and glasses, and yet surely the resemblance was there. And that voice…! He kept his eyes fixed on the man through the rest of the bidding as he pushed the price higher than the auctioneer had anticipated. And surely only Bashir, determined to gain protective custody of his commander at all costs, would bid so high for a slave whose scars proclaimed him a liability as an investment.

He did not again descend into his dazed stupor, even as the auctioneer moved on to the next slave. The man who had bought him bid on no one else, but Sisko knew that proved nothing.

At last the auction was over, and his purchaser came to the platform to claim his new property. Even up close, Sisko found it hard to recognize him, but that could have been partly because of the spots now dancing in front of his eyes.

Then the man's eyes swept over him in a familiar once-over, and for a moment he was sure it was indeed the doctor's gaze. His knees went weak at the sense of warmth and safety that washed over him with that knowledge, but he carefully kept all emotion from his face.

"What's your name, slave?" It was Bashir's voice, but the tone was so detached that Sisko wondered if he had been wrong. How much had the holosuite programmer known about him; would he have put a pseudo-Bashir there to get his hopes up?

"Ben, suh," he answered, keeping his eyes lowered despite his desperate need to see the man's face more closely.

"Can you drive a carriage?"

"I — c'n learn, suh."

The man nodded crisply, turning away as the auctioneer unlocked Sisko's chains and tossed him a rough cotton shirt. He pulled it on, wincing and hissing softly as the fabric touched his raw back.

"This way," the man said, and Sisko followed him to a waiting carriage.

"You can ride up with the driver," the man said with a nod in that direction before turning to enter the carriage himself apparently without a second thought.

It couldn't be Bashir, Sisko realized with despair, staring at the high step to the driver's seat and wondering how he could ever make it up. Bashir surely would have realized he was barely staying on his feet and would have made sure he boarded safely.

Even as the thoughts ran swirling through his pain-fogged brain, the driver leaned down, offering a huge brown hand. "Looks like you could use some help."

Sisko offered a small smile of relief and gratitude. Placing his hand in the driver's, he found it swallowed by the strong clasp as he was nearly lifted to the seat. "Thanks," he gasped, sitting cautiously and leaning forward to protect his back.

The driver merely nodded, shaking the reins and clucking softly to start the horse. "You don' need to be afraid of your new massa, you know," he remarked, glancing toward Sisko but keeping most of his attention focused on the road. "He ain't got any other slaves of his own that I knows of, but he's good to us darkies."

Sisko grunted softly in acknowledgement and concentrated on not falling headfirst off the seat in dizziness.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	8. Treatment

**Chapter Seven: Treatment**

Seeing how obviously sick and in pain he was, it was all Bashir could do to turn his back on his commander and not offer him a hand into the cushioned interior of the carriage. But he knew he couldn't risk being seen as too accommodating to a mere slave. He reminded himself to be thankful he had found Sisko at last; soon he would be alone with him in the privacy of his room and could set about tending his wounds.

He was grateful to see through the small window as the driver he had hired from the livery offered his aid, and only hoped Sisko could manage to stay on his seat during the short ride to the boardinghouse.

Once there, he exited the carriage and waited with an affected air of boredom as Sisko half fell from the high seat, lurching clumsily and steadying himself on the wheel. Only the clenching of the doctor's fists would have betrayed him to a careful observer. "This way," he ordered shortly, daring say nothing more lest his emotion creep into his voice.

Turning, he led Sisko toward the house, trusting he would be able to hear if the commander fell. His heart nearly broke at the halting, shuffling sound of his steps.

"Mrs Jeffries," Bashir called, pausing at the door to the kitchen, "would you bring some hot water and clean towels to my room, please?"

"Right away, sir," she responded.

"You don't intend to _treat_ your slave, surely?" a fellow boarder asked, startled, looking up from the book he was lounged on the sofa reading.

"He'd hardly be any use to me as a driver fainting and sick from pain," Bashir pointed out. "And it's a complete waste of my money if he dies on me."

The man shrugged. "Should have spent your money on a healthier specimen, then," he remarked, returning to his reading as if the topic held little interest for him.

Bashir bit his lip hard and beckoned Sisko on, not trusting himself even to attempt to respond.

"Shut the door behind you," he directed when Sisko had at last made his laborious way up the stairs and stood in the entrance to the doctor's room. Bashir kept his back to him until the sound of the latch told him Sisko had obeyed; then at last he turned, his face softening into true friendship and concern.

And for the first time, Sisko was completely sure. "Julian," he whispered hoarsely, suddenly finding himself trembling.

"All right, Commander," Julian said gently, half extending his arms.

Sisko fell against him, clinging hard to his solid realness and letting himself believe this wasn't just a feverish dream. Considering the state of his back, Bashir didn't dare embrace him in return, but reached up and gripped the backs of his shoulders where the scourge had not touched. "It's all right now," he murmured soothingly. "I'm here; they won't touch you again."

For a moment silent sobs shuddered through Sisko's body, and then he regained control and took a step back, still keeping his hands on Bashir's arms as if expecting the doctor to disappear if he broke the contact. "Jake?" he whispered hoarsely.

"He's staying with the O'Briens; he's worried sick about you, but he's fine…which is more than I can say for you," Bashir added, touching the back of his hand to Sisko's forehead. "You're burning up!"

"My back's…on fire," Sisko admitted. "Julian, I don't think I was ever so glad to see you in my life…"

"I can imagine," Bashir said grimly. "Here; let's get you to bed before you fall." He led Sisko toward the bed with a hand on his arm, pausing to slit the back of the rough cotton shirt with a knife from his pocket and then tear it down the back, doing his best to keep the fabric from touching Sisko's wounds. He pulled the garment off and tossed it aside, then gently helped the commander to lie down on his stomach.

"Mm," Sisko moaned softly in relief. The straw-filled mattress rustled softly; it had been stuffed recently and smelled clean and sweet; a far cry from the hard, moldy pallet that had been his bed recently.

A knock came at the door, and Bashir gently touched Sisko's shoulder before going to answer it. "Just lie still," he murmured; "I'll be right here."

He crossed to the door and opened it to find Mrs Jeffries standing there with a basin of steaming water and a pile of clean towels. "Ah; thank you."

"Is there anything else you need, sir?" she questioned as he took them from her.

Bashir shook his head. "I don't think so, but I'll let you know." As he turned to set down the towels and water, Mrs Jeffries caught sight of Sisko on the bed behind him and gasped softly.

"Blacks may be just animals, sir, but I don't know any man would do that to a dog or horse!"

"Indeed," Bashir said coldly, hating hearing the commander referred to as an animal even knowing she spoke only as she had been taught and hearing the pity she was unable to keep from her voice. He inched the door shut with less than his usual chivalry; she took the hint and turned to leave.

Bashir paused long enough to lock the door behind her; it was unlikely anyone would walk in on him, but he preferred not to take the chance. His explanation of protecting his investment might cover simply cleaning and salving Sisko's wounds, but wouldn't likely justify in the Southerners' eyes the degree of surgical care Sisko's back would probably require.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said gently.

Sisko only groaned, and Bashir wondered if he had even heard the landlady's words. "All right, let's get you fixed up," he said with false cheerfulness, setting his bag on the stand beside the hot water and towels and snapping the catches open.

He removed a black bottle, pouring a small amount into a glass and adding water from the ewer on the washstand before stirring briskly. "I need you to drink this, sir," he said, kneeling at Sisko's side and holding the glass to his lips.

"What…is it?"

"Laudanum," Bashir said quietly.

Sisko pulled back. "Isn't that addictive?"

"No more so than some of the drugs you let me inject without question on the station," Bashir responded evenly. "In carefully controlled doses it should be fine, and if you need to go through detox treatment when we get back, so be it; right now you need something if I'm going to work on your back. Now drink." His voice was firm, and reassured, Sisko willingly swallowed the promised relief from pain, grimacing only slightly at the taste.

"I would have thought you would have brought something more effective from the station," he murmured, laying his cheek on his hand.

Bashir grinned ruefully. "I did. Unfortunately, I left the drugs in the hypospray vials; the portal let the drugs through but left the containers behind; my bag was a dripping mess."

Sisko gave a soft grunt of laughter before drifting into unconsciousness. Bashir pressed a finger for a moment to his pulse, then got up to scrub his hands as thoroughly clean as soap and water could get them.

He found himself wishing the bed were higher as he returned to Sisko's side; his own back was going to be aching after several hours of work bent over his patient. But that was his last thought of himself as he began wetting towels with hot water and applying them to Sisko's back, soaking away the crusted layers of dried blood, pus, and dirt.

Then at last he could clearly see the extent of the damage, and felt his stomach turn. Not at the wounds themselves; he had seen and treated worse. But the thought that one human could do this to another was nothing short of sickening. The man who had beaten Sisko was a hologram and so not responsible for his actions, but that didn't change the fact that slave owners _had_ treated their "property" in such a fashion.

And whoever had created this program and determined that Sisko should be caught in it was just as responsible as if he had held the lash himself. The pattern of healing showed that Sisko had been badly beaten at least three times; even as Bashir recalled his own remark that a Starfleet commander did not a good slave make, he wondered if the programmer had purposely made sure Sisko would be punished as often and as harshly as possible.

Bashir sighed, shaking his head; none of that mattered now. The important thing was treating Sisko's ravaged back as best he could. He really needed an hour or two with the dermal regenerator, Bashir reflected; maybe even skin grafts. But even on the station, he would have had to spend some time cleaning it up first; you couldn't simply grow new skin over wounds that had been left neglected for so long. And while his instruments were admittedly more primitive, this at least was something he would have done little differently on the station.

After having practiced in this holoworld for several days now, the old-style metal scalpels felt right in his hands as he cut away dead skin and lanced and drained pockets of infection. Tweezers and forceps hadn't changed all that much, he reflected as he picked out bits of ground-in dirt from the raw flesh, squinting in concentration despite his near-perfect eyesight.

At last he straightened for a moment before minutely examining Sisko's back once more and determining he had indeed cleaned it up as much as he could.

He reached for a large bottle of whiskey, uncorking it and pouring a generous amount on a clean cloth. Folding the cloth, he began swabbing Sisko's back. Even unconscious, Sisko's raw flesh shuddered away from the harsh sting of the alcohol. "Sorry," Bashir murmured, forcing himself to continue even as Sisko moaned softly. "It's the only antiseptic I have…"

He worked as quickly and as gently as he could, pausing only to douse a fresh cloth from the bottle before continuing.

Sisko's breathing grew slightly faster and shallower, and Bashir regarded him with concern as he tossed the used cloths in the rubbish heap. Wiping his hands quickly, he checked Sisko's pulse once more. It was consistent with an increase in pain, but not indicative of any significant distress or danger, and Bashir relaxed slightly, knowing his supplies to treat shock were pitifully limited.

Once more he regarded Sisko's back, scrutinizing it closely and deciding grimly that there wasn't enough undamaged skin left to sew the wounds. But some of the deeper cuts would benefit from sutures in the muscle, and he turned to his bag for the supplies he needed.

The procedure took him another half hour, and then at last he reached for a pot of salve, liberally applying the thick, soothing ointment. He considered whether to bandage it or not, but settled for lightly pulling the bedsheet over the commander.

Bashir returned to the washstand to scrub his hands thoroughly once more, and then stood over his patient in a moment's consideration. He knew he should check Sisko's glands for signs of infection, yet if it had indeed spread further than the initial injury there was little he could do for it; perhaps it was better to remain unaware and continue in the belief that Sisko could eventually recover.

Yet in the end his medical instincts won out and he slipped his hand under the commander's jaw. To his relief, the glands were only slightly swollen; perhaps the infection was indeed confined to the area where he could get at it.

Seating himself beside the bed, he pressed his fingers to Sisko's pulse, then slid his hand down to rest for a moment in the commander's. Sisko's fingers curled around his, clinging to his comforting presence even in sleep, and Bashir smiled softly to himself and did not pull away.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	9. Tender Care

**Chapter Eight: Tender Care**

When Sisko awoke, the slanting late afternoon sunlight showed that it was nearly evening. He blinked, fearing Bashir's appearance had been only a dream, but was relieved to see the doctor's face come into focus bending over him. "Julian," he breathed voicelessly.

"Yes, sir; I'm here," Bashir responded, touching a comforting hand to Sisko's face. "How's your back?"

"Better…and worse. The pain is different… sharper."

"I suppose that makes sense," Bashir admitted. "I cleaned out as much infection as I could, so the pain from that should be diminishing. But some of the dead skin I had to remove was protecting the flesh beneath it to some degree; now that it's gone it may well hurt a bit more sharply until it starts to heal over."

Sisko grunted softly. "I didn't get much of that… but it's good to hear your voice."

Bashir grinned. "Likewise, though I've heard it sound a lot better…could you manage a drink?"

"Please," Sisko whispered, cautiously rolling half on his side to lie propped up on one arm. He licked his lips before sipping from the cup Bashir held for him, and the doctor noticed that they were dry and chapped to the point of cracking.

"It looks like your lips could use a touch of salve, too," he remarked as he set the cup aside.

"I suppose…to be honest I've gotten used to it."

Bashir only shook his head as he dipped a finger in the pot of salve and spread it generously over the commander's lips. "It's safe if you swallow some, but try not to lick it off," he warned lightly.

"Feels good…what is it?" Sisko asked, resisting the urge to run his tongue over his lips.

"It's actually something made by one of the local women," Bashir explained. "It's a mixture of aloe, oil, beeswax, and honey, and has more real medicinal value than a lot of home remedies, especially in this time. The aloe and oil are soothing and moisturizing, and honey has some antibacterial properties. The beeswax is just a base and thickener, but it certainly doesn't do any harm."

Sisko had seldom shown much interest in the explanation behind any treatment the doctor gave, and Bashir suspected he merely wanted to hear his voice, the only part of himself he hadn't disguised. "I doubt it's really sterile," he continued, "but then nothing here is… What you really need is a good session with the dermal regenerator, but I did the best I could with what I have."

"I'll be fine," Sisko assured him with a slight smile, "now that you're here."

"If it's at all in my power, you will be," Bashir promised firmly. "And to that end, let's have a closer look at how you're doing." He took an old-fashioned thermometer from his bag, shaking it out and slipping it under his tongue. He should have taken Sisko's temperature before applying the salve, he reflected vaguely, feeling Sisko's pulse as he waited for the instrument to register; it was going to be greasy and require more than a sterilizing wipe-down.

"One oh one," Bashir murmured, holding the thermometer up to the light to read the results. "I didn't get an exact reading before, but I'm guessing you were up to at least one oh three. The fact that it's coming down is a good sign that I got all the infection."

"I didn't have any doubts."

"Well, thanks for the confidence, but I did," Bashir said dryly. He set the thermometer aside and took a stethoscope from his bag. "Let's just have a listen, shall we?"

Sisko eyed the instrument curiously. "Is that a stethoscope? It's not at all how I pictured one…"

"You're thinking of later versions," Bashir explained. "A few decades earlier, and I'd be listening with an ear on your chest…although I might still have tried to sneak one through the portal. But no more talking for a minute; take a slow, deep breath."

After listening to Sisko's heart and lungs for several minutes, Bashir straightened. "Well, I think you'll live," he said lightly, the relief in his voice not entirely a jest. "Does anything besides your back hurt?"

"No…"

Something in Sisko's voice made Bashir sure that the answer, though honest, wasn't the complete truth. "Any discomfort at all, then?" he rephrased the question.

"I'm a little sick to my stomach," Sisko admitted. "But it's not bad; I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"Mm. When was the last time you ate?"

"They gave me some corn bread before the auction…my back hurt too much to eat much of it…before that I don't know."

"You need to eat something," Bashir said with quiet authority. "I'm sure you'll feel better with food in your stomach. I told my landlady to have some broth ready; I'll go get it and be right back." He jumped to his feet and headed for the door, but the commander's voice stopped him. "Julian…"

Bashir paused and turned back with his hand on the doorframe. "I'm real, sir," he assured him quietly; "I won't disappear if I'm out of your sight."

Sisko sighed. "Don't be long, then."

"I won't," Bashir promised, leaving the room and pulling the door shut behind him before dashing down the stairs.

When he returned five minutes later, he carried two biscuits wrapped in a napkin and a bowl half full of steaming broth.

Sisko sniffed the appetizing aromas appreciatively, but eyed the food a little dubiously as Bashir seated himself beside the bed. "Are you sure, Julian…?"

"Yes," Bashir assured him gently. "Laudanum on an empty stomach could be part of your problem, and extreme hunger can sometimes start to feel like nausea. We'll just take it slowly." He broke a piece off a biscuit as he spoke, dipping it in the broth and holding it to Sisko's mouth.

Sisko accepted it cautiously, chewing slowly and swallowing a little bit at a time, partly just to savor the flavors that were so much better than the dry, gritty cornbread he had been given for his last meal.

He waited a moment to be sure the morsel stayed down before accepting the next bite from Bashir's hand. The doctor had been right, he realized, as with each bite his appetite seemed to increase. Still Bashir kept him from eating too fast, wary of causing it to come back up.

The first biscuit was nearly gone when there was a hurried step on the stairs and then a pounding on the door.

Quickly setting the food aside, Bashir jumped to his feet and hurried to open the door. "Yes?" he demanded tensely.

"Dr Bashir, the son of one of the plantation owners hurt himself badly; they want you right away."

"Of course. But stay a moment, Mrs Jeffries." He opened his bag as he spoke, mixing another dose of laudanum with hurried fingers. "Finish giving my slave his supper. Don't force him to take more than he will; when he's finished make sure he drinks all of this — give it a stir first."

Mrs Jeffries nodded, settling into the chair Bashir had vacated.

Sisko looked for a moment as if he would speak; not as the sick, vulnerable man begging Julian not to leave him, but as the commander demanding to know what Dr Bashir was doing risking the timeline. But a sharp glance from Bashir reminded him of his place in this world, and he fell back and kept silent.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Bashir promised. Snapping the bag closed, he tossed his coat over his shoulder and grabbed his hat and walking stick before dashing from the room.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	10. Midnight Misgivings

**Chapter Nine: Midnight Misgivings**

It was late when Bashir stole back into the room, attempting to be quiet so as not to wake Sisko. But at the faint creak of the door, the commander raised his head. "Julian?"

Bashir sighed in defeat. "What are you doing awake?" he scolded mildly, pushing the door shut and crossing to set his bag on the stand and toss his coat over the back of the chair. "Does your back hurt?"

"Some," Sisko admitted. "I was listening for you."

And not, Bashir surmised ruefully from his commander's tone of voice, because he was hoping for another dose of laudanum. "Well, sir?" he asked resignedly.

"Should you really be treating patients, Julian?" Sisko asked seriously.

"There's no need to worry about the timeline, sir," Bashir assured him. "We didn't actually go back in time; we're trapped in the holoprogram."

"Miles is sure of that?"

"Reasonably sure, yes."

Sisko frowned. "Then if this is a holoprogram and the people aren't real…why even bother to practice?"

Bashir shrugged. "For something to do? As an excuse to visit various plantations looking for you? Because no matter how much I _know_ the people aren't real, when I see them hurt the doctor in me can't realize that? Because even some holoprograms have approached sentience and the ability to feel pain? Because it's just possible that you and I aren't the only people trapped in here?"

"But — surely you could tell?" Sisko questioned, making a sudden motion of surprise at Bashir's last justification.

"How?" the doctor asked soberly. "If I hadn't been looking for you, I couldn't have told you from any other slave; you weren't certain of me at first — in fact, I'm still not sure you really are," he added with a quick grin before sobering once more. "It's not as if I have my tricorder with me — and if I did I'm not sure how much use it would be. Considering we're trapped in a computer program, it might not register our lifesigns, or conversely, the program might make it read even holograms as living people."

"All right, I'll give you your reasons for treating holograms," Sisko admitted. "But much as I trust Miles…how do you know for sure that _wasn't_ a portal into the actual past?"

Bashir shook his head. "I've noticed some inconsistencies — minor, but enough to indicate this is just a holoworld. Unless history as we know it from the books is wrong, which I admit is possible and even likely after so many centuries. Regardless, I doubt anything I've done could damage the timeline. Aside from being a bit more concerned about cleanliness than most, I haven't given any treatments that weren't used by 1860s doctors, though some might admittedly be considered novel and not yet widely accepted." He smiled crookedly. "I'm not going to try to save Lincoln, if that's what you're worried about."

Sisko chuckled. "No, Julian; I'm sorry. I should know enough by now to trust you and Miles."

"I will admit, I'm glad this _isn't_ real so I don't have to hold back from offering aid. But it's late; all due respect, sir, but we can talk about this in the morning. Right now you need another dose of laudanum so you can get some rest."

Sisko watched silently as Bashir mixed the dose. "Julian," he said, not drinking as the doctor offered him the medicine, "I can understand your treating patients to fill time and for all your other reasons. But how could you justify leaving a real patient to treat a hologram?" His voice was almost wistful; not that of a commander now but of a sick, injured man asking _How could you leave __**me**__?_

Bashir sighed, setting the glass on the stand and taking a seat beside the bed. "They were real enough to beat you," he reminded him quietly. "In this world, I can't be seen as putting the welfare of a slave over that of a white man, especially a wealthy one, for both our sakes. I wouldn't have left if you had truly needed me…but you needed me more where I was. Now drink this; sleep, and we'll talk in the morning."

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	11. Reconnecting

**Chapter Ten: Reconnecting**

Sisko woke the next morning to the appetizing smells of the breakfast Bashir had just brought up. He sniffed appreciatively, pushing himself to his side, then cautiously sitting up, wincing only slightly as the sheet slid from his back.

Bashir looked up from his own breakfast with a smile. "Good morning, sir. Feeling better, I take it?" He set his plate aside and stepped to the side of the bed.

Sisko nodded. "Just sore." He waited patiently as Bashir felt his pulse and pressed a hand to his forehead to check his temperature.

"The fever's gone," the doctor said with satisfaction. "Are you up to eating breakfast?"

Sisko's nod was punctuated by a growl of agreement from his stomach that made Bashir grin. "I can feed myself this morning," he insisted.

Bashir merely nodded, uncovering Sisko's plate and putting it in his lap, tucking a fork in his hand before going back to his own breakfast.

"So, how did Mrs Jeffries treat you?" Bashir questioned when they had eaten in silence for several minutes.

Sisko shrugged, then winced as the action pulled at his back. "Better than most of the whites in this time; not as if she really thought I was human."

Bashir made a soft noise of sympathy. "I get the idea that she would be one of the easier ones to convert to abolitionism, but since she _is_ only a hologram, I guess there's no real point in trying."

"No more point than patching up their wounds," Sisko retorted.

Bashir grinned. "That's entirely different."

"Is it? I wonder."

Bashir chuckled. "So, how do you like my 1860s getup?" he asked, gesturing toward his clothes as he changed the subject.

"Fine…but why the glasses? You don't need them, and it's not as if you have to keep anyone from recognizing you."

"No," Bashir admitted, lightly tapping the side of the gold frames, "but they look distinguished, don't they? At least, that's what Garak told me."

Sisko shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder how he'd dress my crew if they weren't in uniform all the time…I'm not sure I really want to know."

"Probably not," Bashir agreed, gathering the empty breakfast dishes and putting them on the tray for Mrs Jeffries to take downstairs when she came for them.

"I need to clean your back this morning, but we'll talk first; I'll have to give you laudanum beforehand, and it will probably put you out for several hours. But I can give you a small dose now if you need it."

Sisko shook his head. "I'm fine; it's so much better than it was that I barely notice it."

Bahir only grunted, recognizing what Sisko's level of pain still had to be and hating the thought of how bad it must have been for this to seem negligible.

"How long have you been here?" he asked softly, sitting beside Sisko on the bed in a manner that showed him in that moment to be more friend than doctor.

Sisko shifted slightly to face him. "I don't know for sure…it's easy to lose track of time when you're a slave. About two weeks would be my best guess."

"I'm sorry," Bashir said quietly. "I came as soon as I could, but holographic time isn't the same as real time…and it took me a week to find you after I got here."

"I know, Julian; you did the best you could," Sisko assured him.

"Yes…" Julian said absently. "So I came a day after you did, station time; since I took a week to find you, you would have been here about a week when I came. That means a day on the station is roughly equal to a week here — which means we shouldn't be expecting rescue in under a week or two, and possible a good deal longer. Miles is good, and if anyone can get us back he will, but even he can't work miracles in a day."

"Having you here is miracle enough for me; it's like night and day since you found me. If it wasn't for Jake and the others back on the station, I'm not sure I would care whether or not I was ever 'rescued.'"

"I could do worse than setting up as a doctor here," Bashir admitted. "But I don't think we really have to worry about staying here indefinitely; Miles and the others aren't going to rest until they find a way to get us back. And speaking of back…"

Sisko frowned. "I've just been thinking of something, Julian; you lost all the drugs you brought with you, right?"

"Yes."

"That means everything you've given me is holographic; how can you know it will do any good?"

"You feel better, don't you?"

"Yes, but —"

"I think you're forgetting that your injures are holographic as well," Bashir pointed out.

"With the safeties off, injuries in a holosuite can be quite real," Sisko said grimly.

"Then so can their treatment," Bashir suggested. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure it would be all that safe to use real drugs to treat a holographic ailment — though trapped in the programming like we are, I suppose even real things we brought with us are 'holographic' to some extent — and either way, a dose of antibiotic couldn't do you any harm." He frowned with the intensity of his statement, then shrugged it off with a slight smile; there was no point wishing for or debating the wisdom of using drugs he had no means of obtaining. "Regardless, as long as I see you're continuing to respond, I'm going to treat you with what I have and trust that it's doing as much good as you need it to."

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	12. Chain of Command

**Chapter Eleven: Chain of Command**

A week later, Bashir came into the room carrying a driver's uniform, which he draped over the back of the chair. "I wish I could let you heal completely before putting you to work, but people are going to start being suspicious if I coddle you much longer."

"That's all right," Sisko assured him. "Being a driver doesn't sound very strenuous. I suppose you'll be giving me my manumission papers, then?"

Bashir was silent for a moment. "No," he said quietly. "All due respect, but I think you're safer without them."

"How do you mean?" Sisko questioned, frowning, the look in his eyes reminding Bashir for an instant which of them was truly in command.

Bashir sighed. "If you had papers, you would have to be absolutely certain to have them with you at all times. But even if you did, someone would just have to claim to disbelief their authenticity and they could put you back on the auction block. Whereas if you're my slave, I have rights as a white man not to have my 'property' stolen, and legal recourse if for some reason they do try to sell you again."

"All right," Sisko agreed reluctantly. "Just don't get too used to it."

Bashir smiled quietly. "I've never hankered for command, sir; I just want to be a doctor. But I think you do need to start treating me as your master even in the privacy of this room."

Hurt flashed in Sisko's eyes in the instant before he lowered them. "I see," he murmured.

"I'm not secretly prejudiced," Bashir assured him quickly. "I'm a xenologist, don't forget; I consider a lot of races 'human' that look far more different from me than just having a different skin color. But if you're used to talking to me as an equal here, you could slip up in public, where I'd have to discipline you for your 'insubordination.' I would never hit you with anything more than the flat of my hand, but depending on how closely any witnesses are watching, the blow might have to be real."

"I won't court martial you for it," Sisko promised, glancing up for an instant into Bashir's eyes and wondering if he really would be able to make himself strike his commanding officer. "And don't _you_ slip and call me sir," he added.

A smile twisted Bashir's lips for an instant. "I _never_ forget my act," he said with surprising certainty; there seemed to be meaning behind the words beyond what Sisko could comprehend.

"I understand why we have to keep up the act even privately," Sisko said after a moment, "but why do we have to stay here? Why can't we head north where I can be a free man?"

"Don't forget about the portal," Bashir reminded him. "I don't know if Miles' way of getting us home will involve sending someone through to bring us back, but we don't want to go too far from it just in case; it was hard enough for me to find you within a ten-mile radius."

"Surely we could leave a message of some kind?"

Bashir shrugged. "I suppose. If it comes to that, I've been holding up notes near the portal — just in case they can see us even though we can't see them. But it would still mean taking the time to track us down, and then travel all the way back…better to just stay here. Besides," he added mysteriously, "are you so sure there _is_ a north?"

Sisko frowned. "What do you mean? Of course there's a north."

"Oh, I'm sure there's a directional north, if we stand with the rising sun on our right. But most holosuite worlds are fairly limited; if we go north beyond the range of the programming, we'll just find ourselves approaching this town from the south again."

"I never thought of that," Sisko whispered hollowly. "My word, Julian; if I had ever tried to run away on my own…" He shuddered, imagining in far too vivid detail the beating that would have been his as punishment for running away.

Bashir shook his head. "It's not worth thinking about; thankfully I found you when I did. Get changed now, and we'll head down to the livery; Humphrey said he'd train you as a driver." He turned his back to give Sisko some privacy.

"Suh?"

Bashir bit his lip, hating the submission in his commander's voice, but knowing he had been right to insist on it. "Yes?" he questioned, turning and finding Sisko dressed in the uniform, standing with his gaze lowered.

"You gon' make me sleep with the other slaves, suh?"

Bashir shook his head quickly. "No; I'll say you're doubling as my body slave if anyone asks. But I think you should probably take the pallet now." Had Mrs Jeffries questioned, he would have explained Sisko's use of the bed thus far while the doctor slept on the pallet by truthfully saying it was easier to tend his wounds on a raised bed.

"Yes, suh. I'se ready, suh."

"Then let's go." Bashir pulled the door open and led the way downstairs, Sisko following obediently behind.

**Next chapter coming next week!**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	13. Waiting

**Chapter Twelve: Waiting**

"This is Humphrey," Bashir said, introducing Sisko to the huge slave who had been his driver on the day of the auction. "Humphrey, I want you to make a decent driver out of Ben here."

"Yessir, massa doctor," Humphrey said, touching his forehead in what appeared to be genuine respect.

"I'll leave you to it, then; see if you can have him ready by the end of the day."

"Yessir," Humphrey said again. "You come this way, Ben; you evuh been 'round horses before?"

"Some," Sisko said cautiously, not entirely sure long-ago pony rides at a county fair should count.

"Well, you don' hafta worry about makin' mistakes with the doctor," Humphrey assured him. "He 'spects ya ta do yer bes', mind, but he don' whup you fer what wasn't yer fault like some do."

"I know," Sisko said quietly.

Humphrey nodded, glancing toward Sisko's back. "I 'spects ya do," he agreed. "'Mazes me, the way the doctor cares fer us darkies almost 'sif we were people. Not long ago, my boy Cletus run the pitchfork through 'is foot, an' the doctor cleaned it right up., an' the doctor cleaned it right up. Mebbe even saved his life, from what 'e said."

And that explained Humphrey's devotion, Sisko realized. But he agreed there was little doubt that if one had to be a slave, there were few better masters than Dr Julian Bashir.

**oOo**

By the end of the day, Humphrey pronounced Sisko a sufficiently good driver to take over driving duties for the doctor. Bashir nodded his satisfaction when Humphrey told him. "I thought he'd be a quick study," was his only comment. "How's that boy of yours, Humphrey?"

"Doin' good, suh. 'Most doesn't limp at all."

"Good. Make sure to keep that foot bandaged for another week or so, and he should be fine. Ben, you go eat your supper in the boardinghouse kitchen, then come on up to my room."

"Yes, suh," Sisko replied without lifting his head.

Bashir nodded once more and turned to leave the stables without waiting to see whether Sisko followed.

"Bes' not keep 'im waitin'; I'll put things away here," Humphrey offered.

"Thanks," Sisko replied and headed across the street to the boardinghouse, careful to keep his head down. Hesitantly, he knocked on the back door the boardinghouse. "Miz Jeffries? Massa Bashir say you got supper fer me."

"Come sit down," she told him a little shortly but not unkindly. The food she set before him was obviously left over from the boarders' meal, but no less tasty and filling for that.

**oOo**

"I'm sure you're tired, but let's have a look at your back before bed," Bashir told him when Sisko joined him in room.

"My hands are botherin' me more, suh," Sisko said, holding out his palms.

Bashir frowned as he took Sisko's hands in his and scrutinized the deep blisters rubbed by the reins. "I can salve these tonight," he said heavily, "but to let a slave protect his hands by wrapping them…"

"I unnerstand," Sisko said quietly.

"Sit down," Bashir told him. "Let's get these cleaned up — though I warn you, the whiskey will sting."

Sisko bit his lip, wincing several times as Bashir swabbed the open sores. Then he applied the soothing salve and wrapped a bandage around each hand. "These should callous up soon," he assured Sisko, "and in the meantime I'll try to keep my rounds short. Now, take off your shirt and lie on my bed so I can check your back."

He frowned slightly as he examined the newly formed scar tissue over Sisko's wounds, but said nothing, merely spending some minutes rubbing in the salve. "That's the best I can do," he said at last. "It's early yet, but I'm sure you're tired; why don't you go on to bed now."

"Think I will," Sisko agreed, sitting up cautiously and moving to his pallet on the floor. "Good night…massa."

"Good night, Ben. Sleep well."

**oOo**

Despite all Bashir's care, the deepest wound in Sisko's back refused to heal completely. As Bashir had feared, there was simply too little skin left to cover it; the thin scar that had formed would dry and split open again as soon as it had seemed to heal. Often by evening Sisko would be running a low fever. Bashir found himself wondering if it was written into the program somehow that Sisko couldn't heal no matter what care he received…or was that simply an attempt to shift the blame off himself?

Not that there was anything more he could have done. He could only keep the wound clean and drained, and wait and hope for Miles' rescue.

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	14. Back at the Ranch

**Chapter Thirteen: Back at the Ranch**

_Dr Bashir squeezed Jake's shoulders before releasing him, then nodded toward Dax and O'Brien and strode toward the portal without looking back._

Once more the room was plunged into darkness, the only sound a tinkling as of something falling to the floor.

A moment later the emergency lights came on, dimly illuminating the suite.

Dr Bashir's combadge lay on the floor among a dozen or so scattered hypospray vials.

"Of course," Dax groaned. "We should have realized if it wouldn't let the combadge through, it wouldn't pass any other technology either; we could have given him glass bottles for his medicines."

"But…if he doesn't have his medicines…how will he treat Dad?" Jake whispered.

O'Brien reached to put a hand on the boy's arm. "Don't worry, Jake. Dr Bashir is good at improvised medicine; he'll manage somehow. And before you know it, we'll have both of them back." He bent to pick up one of the vials, and a strange expression crossed his face. Cocking his head, he shook the vial beside his ear.

"What is it, Miles?" Dax questioned.

A wry smile crossed O'Brien's face. "Well, his bag must be in an awful mess…" he murmured. "That portal stopped the vials but let the drugs through…these things are empty!"

Despite the gravity of the situation, or perhaps even because of it, Dax couldn't restrain a small laugh at picturing Dr Bashir's expression when he opened his bag.

"We could send some to him," Jake suggested desperately.

"How, lad?" Miles asked.

"In glass. You said it'd make it through…"

Miles and Dax looked at each other. "Worth a try," the chief suggested.

Dax nodded permission. "Replicate some glass vials, and have the infirmary fill them with whatever drugs Bashir took — I'm sure he left a record there. Jake, I think you'd better get on back to the O'Brien's quarters."

"But…I have to know…"

"Come on, lad," Miles encouraged, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'll walk him down, Dax, and then get those medicines. Don't worry, Jake; I'll figure out how to get your father back."

Jake sighed and let himself be led from the holosuite with only a last lingering look back.

**oOo**

In less than half an hour Miles returned with the vials of medicine, packed in a bag and well wrapped to guard against breakage. Dax had started the holoprogram again, and Miles stepped into the holosuite to find the portal already glowing with its strange green allure and Dax staring at it as if fascinated.

"Don't get pulled in yourself," he warned her, half teasing and half serious.

She jumped and turned toward him. "Oh…I was just thinking. You have the medicine?"

Miles nodded. "Just toss it through, I guess?"

"I'm not sending anyone else through there to carry it," Dax said firmly.

"Right." Miles swung the bag several times, then released it toward the portal. "Here goes!"

For an instant, the bag seemed to be going through. Then it bounced back as if it had hit a wall, falling to lie on the floor below the portal and making O'Brien grateful he had wrapped the bottles so well. "…nothing," he finished the sentence under his breath.

Dax put a hand on his shoulder. "It was worth a try," she said softly. "To comfort Jake, if nothing else."

Miles glanced sideways at her. "And we're not telling him it didn't work, are we?"

"Only if he asks directly; he's worried enough about his father as it is."

"I'm sure they _would_ go through if someone carried them…"

"No," Dax insisted firmly. "Two trapped in the holosuite are enough; I won't risk a third, especially when we don't even know for sure the commander needs medical care."

"It seems more likely than not," Miles maintained.

"In that case, even though you were only trying to comfort Jake, what you told him is true; Julian is amazing at treating people with inadequate supplies."

"I know," O'Brien admitted. "I just wish we could find out if he's all right."

"Maybe we can," Dax suggested. "The portal itself is off limits, but there's no reason we can't have people explore the holoworld; maybe Sisko and Bashir will appear as holograms. I'll get some people on that; you start trying to figure out how to get the two of them back."

"Aye, sir; I'm on it," Miles agreed, tapping his combadge to call several of his technicians.

Not wanting to risk disrupting the files that might have the doctor and the commander encoded within them, Miles had copies made from the holosuite onto the main station computer. There he and several of his technicians began going through them with a fine-tooth comb, looking for anything that might offer even a hint of how the portal worked and how to get their crewmembers back.

Miles had been working on it nearly twenty-four hours, eating abstractedly when food was placed in front of him and barely aware of the passage of time until Dax came on duty the next day.

"Miles, if you've been here all night, then I'm ordering you to bed for some rest," she told him, motherly concern infusing her voice.

Miles looked up, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed. "I can't, Dax. I have to find —"

"Whatever it is you're looking for, you'll be more likely to find it if you're fresh. And you certainly won't find it if you collapse from exhaustion and have to be taken to sickbay."

O'Brien sighed. "I can't go back and face Jake and tell him I haven't gotten his father back yet," he admitted hollowly.

Dax rested a hand on his shoulder, her face softening. "I know. But he knows you're doing all you can. And who knows? Maybe one of the technicians will have a breakthrough while you're gone."

O'Brien glanced toward the young men diligently working at their stations. "I hope so. Any sign of them in that holoworld?"

Dax shook her head. "I still have people looking, but I'm beginning to doubt they'll find anything. Now go home, and don't let me see you back here for a full eight hours — and if you can't sleep, call the infirmary for a dose of something to help."

Miles smiled hollowly. "It wouldn't seem the same without Julian injecting it."

"We'll get them back," Dax promised softly. "We have to believe that, Miles."

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	15. Breakthrough

**Chapter Fourteen: Breakthrough**

Dax had been right, Miles reflected as he walked through the corridors back to the computer lab; his mind did feel sharper after a night's sleep and the meal Keiko had insisted he eat. Jake's eyes were no longer an accusation, but merely an incentive to do his best to get Sisko and Bashir back as soon as possible.

The technicians had been working on rotating shifts, and a different group sat at the computers than when he had left.

"Find anything yet?" O'Brien questioned, expecting the answer to be no. After all, Dax's words notwithstanding, he was sure he would have been called if they had found out how to get the commander back in his absence.

"I…don't know, sir," one of the technicians said without looking up from his screen, his voice puzzled.

"What is it?" Miles questioned, crossing to look over the young man's shoulder.

The technician twisted to look up at him. "I've been through this three times, sir, and this sequence looks familiar, but I can't think why."

"Let's have a look," Miles said, already focusing on the lines of programming as the young man slid out of his seat to make way for his chief.

"Which program sequence is this?" O'Brien questioned.

"Characterization and inhabitant animation. If I had ever worked as a holosuite programmer I'd assume it was just familiar to me from that, but I haven't read holosuite programs often enough for that to be the reason."

"No…" O'Brien murmured. "I agree; this particular section is different from the rest — but it _does_ look familiar. Computer, cross-reference section two eight seven A with all computer systems on the station, and flag similar sequences."

"Calculating."

O'Brien held his breath, half expecting the patched-together computer to find the task too onerous. It groaned and whirred as if it would shut down from the strain at any moment, and O'Brien jiggled his foot impatiently. Most days he enjoyed the challenge of keeping the station's computer systems up and running, but at times like this he longed for a complete refit and a state-of-the-art Starfleet computer.

"Match found," the computer announced at last. "Do you wish to continue search?"

"Display results," O'Brien ordered.

The sequence that scrolled across the screen, while not identical, did indeed bear striking similarities to the one from the holosuite.

"Computer, which system was this sequence found in?"

"Transporter room."

O'Brien smashed his fist into the palm of his hand. "A transporter holding pattern — of _course_!" he exclaimed excitedly. "That's the transporter signature for either Sisko or Julian." He touched a key and toggled back to the original sequence, almost unaware that the other technicians had risen and now stood grouped around his chair.

Now that he knew what it was, it seemed so obvious that he wondered how he hadn't recognized it before. Studying the string of figures, he was nearly certain he could recognize it as Dr Bashir's. Grinning, he tapped his combadge. "O'Brien to Dax."

"Dax here. You got something, Miles?"

"Yes. Still no definite way to get them back, but Hawkinson just found Sisko and Julian."

"I'm on my way," Dax responded, the excitement in her voice's matching O'Brien's own.

Moments later, she appeared in the room, hurrying over to stand behind O'Brian as the technicians made way for her. "You said…you found them?"

"Aye, Hawkinson did. Why don't you tell her about it, lad?"

"Oh, well…I just noticed that one section of the programming sequence looked familiar, but I couldn't think from where. So the chief checked it out, and it's a transporter holding pattern."

"So the portal causes some kind of transporter effect?"

"Essentially so, yes, though I haven't had time to look at the details of that part of the program since we found out."

"But you said you don't know yet how to get them back…can't you just use the station transporters to retrieve them, the same as a delayed transport?"

"I wish it were that simple," Miles said grimly. "But the transporter computer isn't tied in to the holosuites — there's no reason for it to be."

"The holoprogram is on a data solid; couldn't you plug that into the transporter?"

Miles shook his head. "I don't want to risk removing it. I can't tell if their signatures are stored on the data solid, or on the holosuite computer, or even some of each. And even if they're completely on the data solid, it's possible it was programmed to scramble the signatures if it was removed from the holosuite."

"But all this is academic, surely. You have the signatures right here; can't you just enter them into the transporter?"

Miles chuckled mirthlessly. "It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid; there can only be one _real_ copy of their…well, program, for lack of a better word. If I put this sequence into the transporter, we might get something that _looked_ like Sisko and Julian, but they wouldn't have any soul, any personality. And even if they _did_ think and act just like the real ones, do we really want to make do with copies knowing that meant leaving the real ones trapped in the past?"

"No, I see what you mean," Dax admitted. "All right, if we can't remove the data solid what about tying the transporters in to the holosuite computer; could you do it?"

"Technically, yes; practically, I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

"Because of the distance involved," O'Brien explained. "It's a complicated tie-in involving at least ten wires; running them across the whole station would be prohibitive in itself, not to mention trying to keep straight which wire was attached to what at the other end. I don't like to even think about what could happen if even one pair of wires got crossed."

"All right. So you can't bring the holoprogram to the transporters or hook them up as is; is there any possibility of bringing the transporters to the holosuite — at least enough to work?"

Miles shook his head slowly. "Not with these old things. Some new transporters you could practically pop the computer out to replace it, but these have been patched and jury-rigged so many times that I hardly dare touch them unless I need to."

"I know where we can get a new transporter, sir!" one of the technicians burst in eagerly. "The _Cygnus_ — it's docked on the station."

"Excellent!" Dax praised. "What do you think, Miles; would it work?"

"If they let us borrow their transporters, I don't see why not," Miles said slowly. "We could even use our transporter to deliver it right to the holodeck."

Dax nodded crisply. "Get what you need and prepare to beam to the _Cygnus_ to get the transporter; I'll contact the captain."

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	16. Negotiating

**Chapter Fifteen: Negotiating**

"This is Lieutenant Jadzia Dax, acting commander of Deep Space Nine; may I speak with Captain Janderschmidt, please?" Dax's voice betrayed no hint of the trepidation she felt; Captain Peregrin Janderschmidt had already made trouble over several minor issues while his ship had been docked at the station, and she was by no means sure he would give permission for Miles to borrow his transporters.

"The captain's off duty now; is this an emergency?"

"Not yet," Dax admitted, "but we do have an urgent situation regarding some of our crewmembers that your ship may be able to help us rectify."

"I'm not allowed to call him unless it's an emergency."

"All right, then it's an emergency," Dax said, determined to speak to the captain at once despite feeling sorry for what would likely be in store for the crewman when Captain Janderschmidt found out what she was actually calling about.

The crewman sighed. "All right…I'll patch you through. Captain Janderschmidt?"

"Raddishio, I distinctly told you not to disturb me except in an emergency!" From the faint background noise coming through his combadge signal, Dax guessed he was trying his luck at Quark's dabo tables and nearly groaned; she knew better than to hope his being distracted and anxious to get back to the game would work in her favor.

"Yes, sir, I know, sir, but Lieutenant Dax from the space station says there's an…emergency…regarding some of their crewmembers that you can help with."

"I fail to see how the station could need my help, but put him through and be quick about it."

"Her, sir," Raddishio corrected. "Captain Janderschmidt, Lieutenant Dax." His image on the screen nodded at Dax, gesturing for her to take over the conversation.

"Captain Janderschmidt, would you mind going to a…quieter location?" Dax asked without preamble.

"I'm a busy man, Lieutenant; I'm sure I can deal with whatever problem you have just fine here."

Dax bit her lip, hating the condescension in his tone. "All right, then; we're requesting the loan of your transporters."

"Well, I suppose I don't mind beaming someone of yours somewhere if your transporters aren't working, but I hardly think you needed to speak to me in person to ask that; my engineer can handle it."

"Yes, I'm sure he could, but we need to borrow your _transporter_, not just the use of it."

"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?"

"We have two crewmembers trapped within the programming of one of our holosuites," Dax explained, thinking it best not to mention that the station commander was one of those crewmembers. "Our chief engineer has determined that we can use a transporter to get them back, but our own transporter is too far away and not able to be moved, whereas he thinks yours can be relocated with minimal difficulty."

"Do remind me never to use your holosuites," Captain Janderschmidt said with cutting sarcasm. "And I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for a way to get them back. My transporters are staying right where they are; I should hardly care to get them back and find a similar sort of error in their programming."

"I assure you, Captain, we would return them to you in exactly the same condition we received them."

"Ah, but you can't really guarantee that, now can you? No, I'm afraid I can't take the risk."

"Then I'm afraid you'll be staying at this station indefinitely."

"Blackmail, Lieutenant? That really won't do; I'll just have to appeal to your superiors at Starfleet, whoever they may be."

He could, too, Dax knew; he wasn't Starfleet and couldn't be ordered to do them a favor, so she had no true legal right to deny his ship permission to leave. "Think about it; let me know if you reconsider."

"Oh, I highly doubt I will, Lieutenant. I highly doubt it." His communication cut off abruptly, leaving Raddishio on the screen looking extremely uncomfortable. "If I could let you have the transporters without him finding out, sir…"

"But we both know that isn't an option," Dax said not unkindly. "Deep Space Nine out."

She sighed as his image winked off the screen, burying her face in her hands for a moment before tapping her combadge to tell O'Brien that the solution wasn't as close as they had thought.

**oOo**

From where he stood in the bar, Quark's sharp ears had picked up nearly every word of Dax's conversation with the captain, and he shook his head sadly. Dax was a fine girl, but living in a society that failed to value profit had spoiled her; she hadn't even thought of offering Captain Janderschmidt the monetary incentive he was probably waiting for.

He considered suggesting it to her, but was it worth it to be accused of eavesdropping when they already halfway held him at fault for the commander's disappearance? They would hardly see the point that everything that went on in his bar was his business, and he had more right to "eavesdrop" there than Odo did.

Quark glanced around even as he thought it, wondering if the shapeshifter might not even now be disguised as an extra chair or glass, watching to see if Quark had any more dealings with the stranger who had given him the program. Though for once the thought had a certain amount of comfort in it, as he considered the stranger's threats if he told anyone about him. Odo might love a chance to arrest Quark, but he wouldn't hesitate to protect him from physical harm at the hands of a vengeful alien.

No, Quark decided, he would do the negotiating himself — and likely get a better price than Dax possibly could. He liked Dax; he didn't mind doing her a favor once in a while, though he did hope she would think to reimburse him for any latinum he had to spend. He had never meant to make Sisko disappear and felt guilty that it had happened in his holosuite, but not so guilty that he felt he needed to pay to make up for it. But of course, nothing was so good for a guilty conscience as _making_ latinum.

Ah, well; if they didn't think of reimbursing him, maybe Odo would look the other way the next time one of his deals was a shade on the illegal side; that would work out to the same difference, and might even be more profitable in the long run.

He sidled up to Captain Janderschmidt's side. "Are you interested in making some latinum?"

The captain placed his bet on the dabo wheel as if he hadn't heard, then waited for the wheel to come to a stop before turning to Quark with a sly smile that matched the Ferengi's own. "Who wouldn't?"

"Oh, I could tell you," Quark muttered.

"You have a deal to offer me, then?"

"A…proposition…if you'll just step this way?"

Captain Janderschmidt glanced at the dabo wheel at which he had been losing all evening, then shrugged and followed Quark to a secluded booth.

"Rom, a drink for the captain…on the house." The words sounded as if they were physically painful for him to utter, but he consoled himself with the thought that the captain's dabo losses more than made up for it.

"So, what's this 'proposition' you have for me?" Captain Janderschmidt questioned after taking a long drink from the glass Rom set in front of him. Quark winced at the rapidity with which the level of liquid went down, wondering if he might be expected to supply refills as well.

"I was wondering if you might be interested in renting out your transporter?"

The captain started visibly. "Do you know, you're the second person to ask me th — Oh. The lieutenant put you up to it, didn't she?"

"Such a thing never would have crossed her mind," Quack responded truthfully. "But I am negotiating on her behalf. Between you and me, Captain, Starfleet doesn't really understand those of us who value profit."

"No; she seemed to think she could expect me to loan the transporters out of the goodness of my heart. I assure you, my heart has precious little goodness to spare for anyone but myself."

"Ah. Then you _would_ be willing to allow the use of your transporters…for a price?"

"If the price was high enough…I might be willing to consider it," the captain replied, leaning back lazily and drumming his fingers on the table.

"How does five bars of gold-pressed latinum strike you?" Quark asked with a crafty smile.

Captain Janderschmidt snorted. "Pah! Five! Barely enough to be worth the trouble of picking it up off the ground. No, if you really want those transporters, the price is fifty."

Quark nearly choked. "Fifty! I could buy a transporter three times over for that price!"

Captain Janderschmidt wagged a finger at him. "True…true…if there was another transporter in this sector to be had. We both know there isn't, which makes mine all the more valuable to anyone who needs it that badly. However, in the interests of fostering good relations, I'm prepared to knock off five bars and accept forty-five."

They both knew the rules of barter; that Quark had started far lower and Janderschmidt far higher than each was willing to accept. In the end they would meet somewhere in the middle, at terms that let each feel he had gotten the best of the other and come out on the better side of the deal.

**oOo**

"So that's twenty bars of latinum for use of the transporter," Captain Janderschmidt summed up when they had at last agreed on terms.

"Less anything you lose at dabo," Quark specified, anxious that he not forget this point.

"Plus a deposit of ten bars, to be refunded at the return of my transporter in full working order," Janderschmidt continued as if Quark hadn't spoken.

"Agreed," Quark said, waving his hand for Rom to come witness the contract. "And if you want my advice, don't tell Dax I had anything to do with it, or about the twenty bars."

Janderschmidt shrugged. "As long as I get it, I really don't care."

"That's agreed, then," Quark concluded. "The twenty-bar payment, less deductions, will be paid on the day you're scheduled to leave. And I'm sure the lieutenant will be willing to put up the ten-bar deposit without any mention of my name."

"I'll take your word for it. By the way, what's in this for you?"

"For me?" Quark asked innocently.

"Yes. I know you Ferengi; you worship 'profit,' and you wouldn't pay twenty bars of latinum unless there was something in it for you."

Quark shrugged expansively. "Let's just say because they disappeared in my holosuite I feel partly responsible, and I don't mind doing Dax a favor once in a while."

Janderschmidt shook his head, narrowing his eyes. "That isn't it, but as long as I get my twenty bars, I don't suppose it matters."

"Less your dabo losses," Quark insisted again.

Janderschmidt flashed a quick grin. "Then I'd better go down and win a few times, hadn't I?"

Quark's answering grin look surprisingly genuine. "By all means!" he cried, clapping him on the shoulder just before the man rose.

"Yes, by all means," he murmured more softly to himself as Janderschmidt returned to the dabo wheel. He would tell the girls to let him have a few small wins now, just enough to keep him playing — though Quark suspected that wouldn't be a problem in any case. Then on the night before he left, he would have the girls ply him with drinks — real ones. Drunk on alcohol and a string of moderate wins, he would grow reckless and bet the entire payment — and lose. In the end, it was Quark who would come out ahead in the deal.

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	17. Change of Heart

**Chapter Sixteen: Change of Heart**

"I just don't know what to do," Miles admitted, slumping in his seat in an uncharacteristic attitude of defeat. "I've been looking over our transporters again, and there's simply no way they can be disassembled and reassembled without any number of things going wrong that I don't have the parts to fix. And if something goes wrong so that we don't get it right on the first try…we'll lose them."

"And there's no possible way to get them back without a transporter?"

"Maybe, but if there is I haven't thought of it."

"Keep working on that," Dax encouraged. "I'll send out a subspace message for the nearest Starfleet vessel to come and lend us their transporters."

"But that could take —"

"Longer than we'd prefer, I know," Dax said gently, laying a motherly hand on O'Brien's shoulder. "But I don't see any legal way to use Captain Janderschmidt's transporters without his permission."

"They'll think we've forgotten them," O'Brien said dully.

"No, they won't," Dax assured him. "They know it won't be easy; for all they know we're still working at figuring out _how_ to do it."

"I don't mind so much for Julian, but Sisko…"

"Has the doctor there with him," Dax said evenly. "I hate it as much as you do, Miles, but I don't see any other way. And the sooner I get that message out, the sooner we'll have a response."

Miles nodded and got heavily to his feet. "I guess I'll take a look at those sequences again, see if there's something I missed the first time."

"You do that," Dax said softly, watching as he left the room. He didn't truly expect to find anything, she knew; he just needed to keep busy and feel he was doing something to help.

Dax slid back into her seat and was about to touch the button for subspace communication when a hail come from the _Cygnus_, startling her by its timing.

"Deep Space Nine," she responded, recovering herself quickly.

"Captain Janderschmidt wished me to call you; one moment while I put him on."

It always annoyed Dax slightly to be put on hold by the one initiating the call in a show of superiority, but she waited patiently as Raddishio went to tell his captain that the connection had been made.

"Captain Janderschmidt; sorry for the delay."

He wasn't, Dax knew, but only said mildly, "What can I do for you, Captain?"

"I've been thinking over your…request…and I believe I may be able to accommodate you if certain safeguards are in place to ensure the safe return of my equipment."

"You have my word that it will be returned to you in the same state we received it."

"Ah, but I was referring to something a bit more tangible, Lieutenant."

"Such as?"

"A deposit of ten bars of gold-pressed latinum to be held by a disinterested third party, and returned to you after my transporters have been returned and tested — unless they fail the test, in which case the money is mine to keep."

"I see," Dax said flatly. "No offense, Captain…but how would I know you had not failed them on purpose?"

"Shrewd, Lieutenant," Captain Janderschmidt said approvingly; that had been Quark's fear as well, though he had expressed doubt that Dax would think of it. "The third party and your engineer would be welcome at the testing, of course," he offered the terms he and Quark had already agreed on.

"That seems reasonable," Dax admitted. "Thank you for your offer, Captain; I'll get back to you shortly."

"If you must, though considering your manner earlier, I would have expected you to jump at it."

"I'll…get back to you," Dax said again.

"You do that," Janderschmidt said flatly. "Just remember, my offer isn't open forever. _Cygnus_ out."

The connection went dead, and Dax dropped her head into her hands, massaging her temples with a sigh. Aside from taking a collection — and even that might not raise enough — there was only one place she could think of to get that kind of money. Quark wasn't going to be pleased, but at least Odo had enough of a hold over him that she was sure of his eventual cooperation.

**oOo**

"But I didn't do anything!" Quark whined as Odo led him into Ops.

Dax raised an eyebrow. "Did anyone say that you had? I…have a request to make of you, that's all."

Quark scowled up at the constable who was still holding Quark's shoulder as if he were not as convinced of the Ferengi's innocence as Dax was. "Then why send _him_ to bring me up?"

Dax nodded to the shapeshifter. "That will be all for now, Odo; thank you."

Odo released Quark reluctantly and left the room.

"I really didn't intend for the commander to get trapped," Quark insisted.

"I understand that, Quark," Dax said pleasantly. "But have a seat, and I'll tell you how you may be able to help get him back."

Quark's eyes widened in pretended surprise. "Me?"

"Not directly," Dax admitted. "Miles has determined that he needs to borrow the _Cygnus'_s transporters to get them back, and the only way the captain has agreed to let us have them is with a security of ten bars of gold-pressed latinum."

"And what makes you think I keep that much ready cash?"

"I'm not completely naïve, Quark; I know your black market deals are cash only…on both sides."

"Black market? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Well, we'll leave that for now…if you'll agree to loan me the latinum. It should be only for a few days; we'll get the money back on the safe return of their transporter."

"Well, I suppose I could," Quark said slowly. "With a ten-percent interest, of course."

Dax grimaced inwardly, but had to admit he had the right to charge interest. "That seems fair. Would the additional bar of latinum be due at the same time as the rest of the money?"

"I suppose I could give you a week or two of grace," Quark conceded magnanimously. "Just remember, if for some reason you can't get my money back, it'll be one bar a _week_ interest."

"We'll have it back," Dax promised, crossing her fingers and trusting as hard as she could that Miles could indeed return the transporter without damage. If not, she supposed Odo would be happy to find something with which to charge Quark, pardonable on condition that their loan was also forgiven.

"How soon can you have the money?"

Quark frowned in apparent thought. "If I call in a couple dabo losses…by this time tomorrow."

"Make it six hours from now," Dax said sternly, her expression not to be trifled with.

Quark scowled, but had no real reason to delay. "Six, then, and due back a week to the hour from the time I hand it over."

"Agreed," Dax said. Surely a week would be more than enough time for Miles to do what he needed to do and have the transporters back on the _Cygnus_ in full working order.

"If you want that money in six hours, I had better get busy…" Quark hinted, standing and beginning to sidle toward the door.

Dax nodded. "You're dismissed."

Quark waited until the door to Ops slid shut behind him before letting a wide grin spread across his face.

**oOo**

"Dax to O'Brian."

O'Brian sighed as he tapped his combadge to reply. "No, I haven't found any other way," he said with a touch of impatience that Dax overlooked.

"You can stop looking," she told him, suppressed elation thrilling through her own voice. "Janderschmidt's agreed, on condition of a security of ten bars gold-pressed latinum to ensure his transporters' safe return."

"But where are we going to find that kind of money?" Miles spluttered.

"One guess."

"Quark. You've spoken to him?"

"Yes. He's agreed to a loan with an interest rate of ten percent a week. You _can_ have the transporters back on the _Cygnus_ in full working order in a week?"

"Yes…if nothing goes wrong."

"Good. Among all of us on command staff, I'm sure we can come up with one bar of latinum."

"I have ten strips," Miles offered instantly. But something _always_ went wrong, he reflected, and wondered how Dax intended to pay the interest if they couldn't meet the deadline.

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	18. Transporter Test

**Chapter Seventeen: Transporter Test**

"Deep Space Nine to _Cygnus_," Dax sent the hail, one hand resting on the box Quark had delivered so exactly on the deadline that she suspected he had been ready sooner and wished to hide the fact. The latinum within was an assortment of bars and strips, Quark insisting that he couldn't manage all bars when he had had to call in a dozen or so loans to get the money.

Still suspecting he had had it all along, Dax hadn't felt it worthwhile to debate the point as long as the full amount was there.

"_Cygnus_ here," Raddishio responded almost instantly.

"Mr Raddishio, you can tell your captain that I have agreed to his terms, and would like to speak to him regarding the details."

"Very good, sir," Raddishio said crisply, but with a slight note of relief in his voice. Dax knew he had been genuinely upset at Janderschmidt's initial refusal, and found herself liking the young man.

It was another fifteen minutes before Janderschmidt's face appeared onscreen, though Dax was sure he had been nearby the whole time. "So, you realized you have no choice, did you?" he asked, a touch of laughter in his voice that made Dax draw a deep breath to keep her calm composure.

"Indeed," she said coolly. "Is there a particular third party who would be acceptable to you?"

"Someone who isn't connected to Starfleet…I suppose a religious figure would be best."

"I could ask a Bajoran vedek," Dax suggested. The fact that Sisko was the Bajoran's emissary to the Prophets might make a vedek less disinterested than Janderschmidt would assume, but Dax had no intention of telling either of them who was missing.

"Perfect," Janderschmidt agreed.

"I'll have him on Ops in half an hour, if you're willing to beam over here?"

"I suppose that would be acceptable. And once he holds the money, your engineer may begin his vandalism of my ship — though I expect one of my crew to be in sight of the transporter at all times."

Dax nodded, determining at the same time to ask Miles if it would be possible to keep him in sight of the transporter without seeing who was transported. "Agreed."

Maybe it didn't matter if they knew who had been missing anyway, she mused; not once they had him back.

**oOo**

"Welcome to the temple of the Prophets," the vedek said, bowing as his even voice sounded soothingly in Dax's ears.

"Thank you," she responded, bowing in return. "Might I ask a favor of you, revered sir?"

"Of course. Come this way, please." He led her to a small room with several chairs that functioned as an office or study, gesturing for her to take one of the chairs as he sat in the other. "And now, what can I do for you, my child?"

Briefly, Dax explained their need to use Janderschmidt's transporters and the captain's condition. "Would you be willing to hold the money, and to observe when the transporters are tested?"

"By all means, though I think I would prefer to have some kind of guard nearby."

"That can be arranged," Dax assured him with a smile. "Thank you. Are you free to come to Ops for the transfer now?"

"I am," he agreed with the same calm composure he always displayed. "Just give me a moment to notify the acolytes of my absence."

Dax nodded. "I'll meet you there," she promised. "Thank you."

"It is my pleasure to serve you, my child."

Dax smiled briefly and got up to go ahead of him to Ops to contact Captain Janderschmidt and Odo.

**oOo**

Captain Janderschmidt nodded slowly, closing the lid of the box after inspecting the latinum. "Yes, that will be ample recompense if anything happens to my transporters." He held out the box to the vedek, who stepped forward to receive it.

"I will keep it in a safe place for you," he promised. He nodded to the security guard Odo had assigned to him, and the man followed him from the room.

"My engineer is waiting in our transporter room, if he has your permission to beam over."

Janderschmidt nodded magnanimously. "By all means."

Dax tapped her combadge. "O'Brien, you're cleared to beam over at your convenience."

"Understood. Energize."

**oOo**

The transporter room of the _Cygnus_ was empty save for the youngish engineer, looking slightly worried as O'Brien materialized in front of him.

"Chief Engineer Miles O'Brian," he introduced himself, extending a hand.

"Frank Shandison," the young man responded. "I'm sorry if I have to make a bit of a pest of myself, but the captain told me not to let you or the transporters out of my sight…"

"Might be a bit difficult to accomplish both unless you can be in two places at once," Miles remarked with a wry half smile. "But no need to apologize; I understand your position. Anyway, I could use a hand, if you don't mind. That is, I assume you _are_ an engineer."

"Yes, sir," Shandison responded, relaxing now that the Starfleet officer seemed not to mind the prospect of being guarded. "I've worked on these transporters a time or two. Never removed them completely, though."

"Well, according to the manuals it's supposed to be relatively easy; let's see how accurate they are, shall we?"

"Do we need a transporter pad as well?" Shandison questioned.

O'Brien glanced toward the round disks set in the floor. "We'd better," he decided. "We're trying something that's never been tried before and cobbling things together; better take every advantage we can to make sure it works."

"I've had those out before; I'll do that while you get started on the transporter. Let me know if you need help."

Miles nodded. "Will do. Though if you're removing a transporter pad, I don't see how you can be keeping an eye on either me _or_ the transporter."

Shandison flushed. "What the captain doesn't know won't hurt him, and let's just say I trust Starfleet officers a little more than he seems to."

**oOo**

An hour later, the boxy transporter and a transporter pad stood by themselves in the center of the room. Pulling two round labels from his tool kit, O'Brien stuck one on each piece of equipment. "To make it easier to get a lock on them," he explained.

Shandison nodded. "I suppose it wouldn't really be practical to beam across at the same time as the equipment?"

"If it were anything but a transporter I wouldn't think twice about it. But I'd rather not have my transporter signature somehow transferred into your transporter instead of ours…"

Shandison shuddered. "I quite agree. I suppose it _is_ safe to beam a transporter?"

"I should think so; it's just metal components the same as anything else." But the two engineers stood looking at each other, and O'Brien made no move to tap his combadge. After a moment he sighed. "You know, maybe a shuttle would be safer."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Shandison said in a relief.

"Well, next time say so; in Starfleet we don't mind hearing genuine concerns from subordinates."

"Yes, sir."

O'Brian tapped his combadge then. "O'Brien to Deep Space Nine Ops."

"Ops; Dax here."

"We have the transporter and pad successfully extracted, but we're having second thoughts about beaming it over; could we get a cargo shuttle?"

"Affirmative. Have Janderschmidt's people carry it to his shuttle bays, and we'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

**oOo**

"We'd better test the transporter itself before tying it in to the holosuite computer," Miles decided, looking at the transporter and its pad in the middle of the holosuite, power cables snaking to the station's hookups. "I'm almost positive no vital components were housed in the ship itself, but almost isn't good enough."

"I assume we don't want to run the test with a person, then," Shandison guessed.

"Not the first one, though these things have so many failsafes that probably the worst that would happen is nothing. But better safe than sorry; stick this label on a spanner or something."

Shandison obeyed, and a moment later O'Brien locked on and energized, the spanner appearing several feet away on the transporter pad. "So far so good. Let's get to work on that tie-in. I just wish there was a way to test that before we use it for real…"

"I guess we can't play it safe every time, sir," Shandison observed soberly.

Miles shook himself. "No…unfortunately not. Let's just hope to goodness I get this right first try."

The two engineers spent the next three hours working on the complicated tie-in between the transporter and the holosuite computer. If Shandison had even the slightest question about one of O'Brien's hookups, he would double and triple check until he was as sure as he possibly could be that no wires were crossed.

Finally each of them had checked every connection for the last possible time, and they looked at each other silently.

"I don't know how we can be any more sure, sir," Shandison said at last.

O'Brien sighed. "No," he admitted. "I guess the only thing left is to try…and hope we don't end up scrambling them." He tapped his combadge. "O'Brien to Dax."

"Dax here. How close are you, Miles?"

"We're ready to try," O'Brien told her.

"Excellent. Give me five minutes to get down there with a medical team."

"Acknowledged. O'Brien out."

Shandison chuckled a little nervously. "Does she have so little faith in your work?"

"On the contrary; she probably trusts it more than I do. But we have no idea what might have happened to the comman…_crewmembers_ in that holosuite, and a medical team on standby is standard precaution in situations like this."

Shandison merely nodded, appearing not to notice O'Brien's near slip of the tongue.

Five minutes later everyone stood gathered in the holosuite, Shandison unobtrusively fading to the back.

Willing his fingers not to tremble, O'Brien set the transporter to retrieve previously stored signatures.

"Transporter signal retrieved," he reported, his mouth suddenly dry. He drew a deep breath, and felt everyone else in the room holding their breath as he threw the final switch. "Energize."

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	19. Endless Cycle

**Chapter Eighteen: Endless Cycle**

"Dr Bashir!"

Seated in the buggy, Bashir turned toward the shout, mentally running over the cases he had treated since arriving here and wondering which this was, or if it could possibly be a new one.

A man on horseback cantered up to him and wheeled the horse to a stop beside the buggy. "It's my nephew, Doctor; he took a foolish jump with his horse and hurt himself badly."

Bashir schooled his features to hide his disappointment; far from being a new case, this was one he had seen two times already.

"Take us there, Ben; Cherry Fields Plantation."

"Yes, suh," Ben responded instantly, whipping up the horse.

The rider, whom Bashir knew to be named Reece Dickerson, wheeled his horse around, galloping ahead of them to be waiting at the plantation when the doctor arrived.

Bashir leaned back in the seat as Ben drove, unable to make himself feel the same sense of urgency he had the first or even the second time he had been called on this case, though the injury was just as serious and painful.

At first, he could easily have forgotten this holo-world wasn't real, and would have minded only for Sisko's sake. But then he noticed that the illnesses and injuries to which he was called were beginning to repeat themselves. It wasn't just the normal pattern of something "going around"; it wasn't multiple people developing the same illness, but the same person calling him again for the same symptoms, often before he had fully recovered the first time. Yet to everyone except Bashir, it was as if the first time had never happened.

The cases came in varying orders, and the same one might occur at different times of day, but they always repeated; he knew them all now, and it was the final proof if he had needed any that they were indeed in a holoworld and not the true past.

It made sense, he supposed; no holoprogram was infinite. They all covered a limited amount of time; had a limited number of ways events could transpire. And this programmer would have focused more on developing the ability to trap people in the program; the algorithms for the program itself would be even fewer than normal.

Bashir had seen no other doctor since he had been here, and realized that each person trapped in the program must simply step into the place of one of the original characters, matched perhaps by some degree of similarity. It was easy to see how Sisko had found himself a slave, and Bashir guessed his stethoscope and other medical equipment had allowed him to take over seamlessly for the doctor.

"Wait here," he told Ben unnecessarily, grabbing his bag and jumping from the vehicle without waiting for the slave's aid.

"Yes, suh," Ben replied to Bashir's back as the doctor half ran up the lane to the house. His steps didn't have the same urgency as the first time, but the doctor in him still couldn't be completely convinced that there was no real need for haste.

It was Reece who opened the door as he was about to knock, just as it always was. And even knowing he was only a holoprogram, Bashir found himself wondering again how he could seem so fresh after riding desperately for a doctor.

"In here," the man said in a low voice, gesturing down a now-familiar hallway.

The injured youth, Duke Millersly, lay among the cushions on a sofa, his eyes closed though Bashir knew now that he was conscious. His face was pale and sweaty, his features drawn with pain, his breathing shallow. Bashir dropped to his knees beside him, brushing his hair back from his forehead before feeling his pulse, though he already knew to the fraction of a second how weak and thready the beat would be.

Why couldn't there be at least a _little_ variety? he wondered in some annoyance. He had often used the training holograms at Starfleet Medical; even when you programmed them for the same ailment ten times in a row, there were as many variations as if you were treating ten different patients for the same problem.

Here there was no difference whatsoever from one time to the next, and he wondered for a moment if he could force a change by varying his treatment. But his treatment had been correct the first time; he would not give inappropriate treatment, even to a hologram, simply for the sake of relieving his own boredom.

"Have you given him anything?" he questioned.

"Some whiskey for the pain and shock," Reece responded.

Bashir's lips tightened; why, he wondered, had it taken so long for people to realize that while a stimulant initially, alcohol was ultimately a depressant, and far from the appropriate treatment for shock? And any pain relief it offered was surely negligible; not enough to justify its use.

Suddenly he felt a moment's fear as he realized his thoughts were word for word what they had been the last two times he had heard the patient had been given whiskey. Was he being swallowed up in the programming until even his thoughts and actions were doomed to an endless cycle of repetition? And if that was the case, would even Miles be able to pull him and Sisko back when the assimilation was complete?

A moment later, he dismissed the thought as absurd. He was the same person; naturally he would react the same way given the same circumstances. And anyway, was he really even thinking the same thing twice, or simply recalling what his thoughts had been the first time? He could play this whole scene out word for word; why should that not include his thoughts as well?

"Bring a blanket; we have to keep him warm," he ordered, concerned as before that the young man was beginning to go into shock. It was a slave who brought the blanket, and with a nod that was all the thanks he dared offer Bashir tucked it around his patient.

He debated again the wisdom of laudanum; it, too, was a depressant and contraindicated for shock, and yet the pain itself might be a greater danger.

But he knew now that the small dose he measured had caused the patient no harm, and so this time his hesitation was only an instant and almost out of habit — and that, too, was a difference, he thought in some satisfaction.

He made the dose slightly larger this time in the knowledge that it would likely be safe, partly to greater ease Duke's pain, partly out of his own curiosity to see whether he could force the boy's vitals to be different than the last two times he had played this scene.

"Drink this," he urged gently, supporting Duke's head and shoulders as he held the glass to his lips. "It will help with the pain."

Duke's eyes remained closed, but he swallowed the medicine obediently, wincing at the taste and perhaps a twinge of additional pain despite Bashir's care in moving him. He moaned softly as the doctor lay him back down, and Bashir brushed a hand across his forehead. "Just lie still," he urged gently. "Give that a few minutes to work, and then we'll see how bad your shoulder is."

After twenty minutes, Bashir enlisted Reece's help in slipping Duke's jacket and shirt off the injured arm, exposing a bruised shoulder with the bone obviously jutting out of place.

The boy's mother had been hovering nearby, fluttering in concern as Bashir worked. At the sight of her son's misshapen shoulder, she gave a low moan and toppled over in a faint.

The first time, Bashir had rushed to her side. Now, he simply glanced over his shoulder and left her to the care of her slave Sadie Rose, already vigorously applying a smelling salt bottle. It was mostly the effect of inappropriate dress, he knew; too many layers for the southern heat, and corsets laced too tight to draw a decent breath. And while he couldn't prove it without his tricorder, he strongly suspected she was at least partly faking, trying to get some attention from the young doctor.

If she wasn't faking it, he found it a bit suspicious that she managed to swoon back gracefully into a chair, though he supposed in a holoprogram anything was possible.

In any case, she did not require his care and would come to in approximately four point three minutes, so he focused his attention on gently feeling Duke's injury.

It was a bad break. Even on Deep Space Nine, he would likely have needed to perform surgery to be sure the bone was aligned and any fragments cleaned out; before the invention of bone regenerators he would have needed to insert pins. Here he could do neither, and the first time he had developed an elaborate brace that took several hours to construct and apply. Now, he didn't see the point; whether Duke's shoulder healed well or badly, in a week or a month they would be starting over from the beginning. Instead he simply aligned the bone as well as he could and stabilized the arm in a sling, leaving a bottle of laudanum for the pain and instructions for its dosage.

Previously he had stayed until he was sure all danger of shock was past; now he knew there was no need and took his leave as soon as he saw the boy was resting comfortably.

**oOo**

Dr Bashir got out of the vehicle and half ran toward the house, and Ben pulled the horse into the shade to wait. Some masters would have been upset with him for waiting in the shade; Dr Bashir would have been upset if he hadn't, though his voice would have been harsh only in the presence of witnesses.

He was a far better master than the others; there were no beatings and better food. But his appearance hadn't been the rescue Ben had hoped. He was still a slave; his back still ached and he felt sick and feverish. Slumping down with the reins held loosely in his hands, he settled himself to wait miserably for the doctor's return.

He drifted in and out of a feverish half doze, startling to full awareness and nearly falling from the seat at the sound of Dr Bashir's voice.

"All right, Ben, we can go now — Ben!" Springing to the seat, he caught him by the arm, pulling him upright.

"I'm — all right, suh."

"No, you're not," Dr Bashir contradicted flatly. He touched a hand to Ben's forehead. "You're feverish again. Ben, why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

"Wouldn't'a done any good, suh," Ben said dully.

"Of course it would," Bashir scolded lightly. "At the very least I wouldn't have had you sitting out here like this — though I'm glad to see you at least had sense enough to park in the shade." He glanced around. "There's no one to see; lie down in the back and let me drive. I'll take a look at your back once we get to the boardinghouse."

"Don' bother 'bout me, suh," Ben mumbled even as Dr Bashir helped him from the driver's seat and into the dark interior. There was little room on the seat to lie down, but Ben curled up, sparing his back as much as he could.

A knife twisted in Bashir's heart at the apathy in Ben's voice. He wasn't just telling the white doctor not to bother treating a slave; he had given up on expecting the treatments to do any lasting good. And he was right, Bashir admitted; even Ben's relapses were so cyclic in nature that he wondered sometimes if he had truly found the commander or only a holographic copy of him. But surely it was only that the beatings would have repeated themselves; Bashir buying him had changed that, but the program couldn't be rewritten entirely by his presence, and the effects of the non-existent beatings remained.

Ben groaned involuntarily as the carriage hit a rut, and Bashir was suddenly sure again of his reality — and even more concerned. Losing the will to live could be far more dangerous than any injury in and of itself.

"You had better hurry, Miles," he whispered through gritted teeth, "or Sisko may go too far to bring him back."

**Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't **_**think**_** they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	20. Point of Return

**Chapter Nineteen: Point of Return**

"Energize," O'Brien said, and everyone in the room held his breath. The single second that followed felt like an eternity before the transporter effect began to shimmer in the air; it was another five seconds that felt like eons before the figures had materialized enough to be certain that they were indeed the missing commander and doctor.

Sisko appeared lying curled on his side, the transporter compensating to place him on the floor instead of at whatever height above it his resting surface had been. Bashir was in a seated position, but his reflexes were fast enough to stand as he materialized and land on his feet.

A collective sigh of relief ran around the room as the medical team ran forward. Bashir waved away the medic heading toward him and she hesitated, glancing uncertainly from Bashir to Dax.

Dax crossed her arms. "Don't be stubborn, Julian; you know you'd insist on scanning anyone else who came back from being trapped in a holosuite."

Bashir sighed. "I'm fine," he muttered, but stood still just long enough for a quick tricorder scan before spinning on his heel and joining the medics clustered around Sisko.

At a glance from him, they backed up enough to give him room; there was no question of who was in charge despite his unorthodox apparel. One of them wordlessly passed a tricorder into his hand, and Bashir took it with a brief nod of thanks.

"Ben," he said gently, putting a hand on Ben's shoulder, "Miles did it; we're back."

Ben only moaned softly without opening his eyes; if he had noticed the transporter effect at all, he must have taken it for merely a fever dream.

Bashir ran a quick tricorder scan and cursed softly under his breath; he had harbored a faint hope that his injuries had been merely part of the holoprogram and would disappear when they were brought back. But the damage was still there, and Bashir realized he had let himself be too optimistic; the tricorder showed the infection to be deeper than he had suspected. He squeezed Ben's shoulder in silent promise and apology. "I'll get this fixed, Ben," he promised. "In a week you won't believe the difference."

Looking up, he beckoned forward the techs standing by with a grav stretcher. "Keep him on his side; don't touch his back. Someone call the infirmary and have them get me a uniform and prepare an operation room; I'm taking him straight to surgery for his back."

Dax immediately tapped her combadge to fulfil his request as Bashir oversaw the techs lifting Ben onto the stretcher. He was at their side as they carried the commander out, but paused long enough to give Miles a look of such heartfelt gratitude that the chief found himself swallowing back a sudden rush of emotion.

Dax followed Bashir with her eyes until he was out of sight, knowing that his lack of attention to anyone else in the room meant the commander's condition was serious. But she had seen him when he feared all his efforts wouldn't be enough, and that desperation hadn't been on his face; she was sure Sisko would eventually recover.

"Miles, get something to eat, and then you can start getting the transporter ready to return to the _Cygnus_. I'm going to go tell Jake that we have his father back."

**oOo**

Jake sat alone with Molly in the O'Brien quarters. He had not felt like babysitting, as he had not felt like doing anything the past few days. But it was the least he could do for Keiko when she had unquestioningly taken him into her home, especially when he knew Miles would have been home to help look after Molly if he had not given up all his free time lately to try to find Jake's father.

Molly had attempted to get Jake to play with her or tell her stories, as he had at times in the past. But when all efforts to interest him failed, she had crawled into his lap and simply sat sucking her thumb as she leaned against him. Jake wrapped his arms around her, taking strange comfort in the feel of the tiny form cuddled against him.

When the door chime sounded, he glanced up, barely caring. "Enter," he said dully, knowing he should ask the visitor's identity first, but unable to believe in any serious threat. His father had been stolen from him; the worst had already happened, so what more was there to fear?

But at the sight of Dax in the doorway, he quickly set Molly to the side and scrambled to his feet, so torn between hope and fear that his knees felt weak and he grabbed at the arm of the sofa for support. "Is it — Dad?"

Dax's broad smile was all the answer he needed. "We got him, Jake."

"Yes!" Jake cried in excitement. "Where is he? Can I see him?"

"He was hurt fairly badly; Dr Bashir took him straight to the infirmary, and he hasn't cleared him for visitors yet. But you know how good Dr Bashir is; I'm sure your father will be fine." Had she had any doubt at all, Dax would have waited until she knew for sure whether she was bringing good news or bad.

Jake bit his lip to hide its sudden trembling. He had accepted Julian's comfort when his father disappeared; now he felt embarrassed at his emotion. Dropping to his knees, he tickled Molly until she squirmed and squealed with laughter and he felt sure the danger of tears was past.

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	21. Shenanigans

**Chapter Twenty: Shenanigans**

It was far easier to disconnect the transporter than it had been to hook it up. O'Brien worked on the station side while Shandison took care of the transporter and its pad; neither had to be concerned about what the other end of his wire was attached to.

When they finished, Miles glanced down at the tangle of colored wire that lay strewn across the floor. "A tech can take care of that," he decided. He tapped his combadge. "O'Brien to Dax."

"Dax here, Miles; how are you doing?"

"We have the transporter ready to take back to the _Cygnus_. I need some people to help get it to the shuttle."

"Acknowledged. I'll send them over, and alert the vedek to stand by to beam over with me as soon as you have it reinstalled."

"With _our_ transporters," O'Brien emphasized. "I don't expect there to be an issue, but I'd rather not find out while beaming people."

"Agreed."

"Any word on the commander?" O'Brien cut in just as Dax was about to sign off.

"Not yet. Dax out."

O'Brien sighed as he turned back to Shandison, trusting Bashir but wishing the doctor had told them a little more about Sisko's condition.

**oOo**

Reinstalling the transporters took longer than uninstalling them had, but far less time than hooking them up to the holosuite computer.

"I wish our station transporters were this easy to work with," O'Brien commented dryly, patting the console near him.

Shandison grinned. "It makes my life easier," he agreed. "Let me call Captain Janderschmidt; he'll prefer to be the one to have your people contacted to beam over."

**oOo**

Soon the six of them were assembled in the _Cygnus_'s transporter room, Janderschmidt scowling with his arms crossed over his chest. "All right, let's see how bad the damage is."

"I assure you, no damage has been caused," O'Brien insisted.

"We'll see," Janderschmidt said skeptically.

"So we shall," Dax agreed. "Do you have any preference what we use for the first test?"

"One of my engineer's tools should be sufficient."

O'Brien nodded to Sandison, who stepped forward and placed the instrument on the pad. "Where to, sir?"

"Beam it across to their station, wait five minutes, then beam it back again."

Shandison raised an eyebrow at the slightly odd request, but programmed the destination into the controls without question.

O'Brien stepped back and tapped his combadge. "O'Brien to transporter room," he murmured just loudly enough for the combadge to catch.

"Transporters; Kyle Reed speaking. What's up, Chief?"

"A spanner is going to appear on the transporter pad; in five minutes it will be beamed back again. I don't want anyone touching it in the meantime."

"Acknowledged, sir. Reed out."

O'Brien looked up just as Shandison pressed the button to energize.

**oOo**

"Acknowledged. Reed out." Kyle Reed tapped his combadge to sign off, then turned back to his guest, a young engineering student who had come to learn about Cardassian transporter technology. "Chief O'Brien could really tell you more than I can," he said apologetically. "He's the one who patched in most of the Starfleet technology we're using now."

The young man nodded, not seeming terribly disappointed — but then, Reed had always had a hard time judging emotions with non-Terrans. "Would he talk to me, do you think?"

Reed shrugged. "I really couldn't say. He's been pretty busy lately, so only if he has a moment to spare."

At the faint buzzing of a transporter effect behind him, he turned to watch in some bemusement as the spanner appeared on the pad. It was some kind of test, he assumed, guessing that O'Brien had merely wished to ensure he didn't pick up and move it out of curiosity.

He could never have told what made him spin back toward his guest; certainly there was no sound. But he was just in time to duck as the "student" swung his heavy carry-all, clearly aiming at Reed's head. "What th' —?" he cried in bewilderment.

Then he saw the "student" heading toward the materialized spanner, and suddenly the chief's warning took on a whole new meaning.

Reed tapped his combadge even as he dove toward the man he now realized must not be a student but some kind of saboteur. "Security needed in transporter room, _now_!" he gasped, taking the intruder down by the ankles and rolling with him across the floor.

From there, it was a fairly easy matter to subdue him; Reed was trained Starfleet, and his opponent seemed to know only the instinctual self-defense of anyone who was cornered. When the security guards rushed in, Reed was sitting on the other man's back, holding his arms wrenched behind him. "He tried to hit me with that," he panted, nodding toward the carryall that had fallen to the floor in the struggle. "Then he was heading toward the spanner the chief just told me not to touch when it appeared, so I tackled him." Even as he spoke, the spanner disappeared in sparkling transporter effect.

One guard picked up the carry-all, opening it as the other snapped restraints on the intruder. He frowned in puzzlement when he saw the twisted, useless lump of metal it contained. "Now, why under all suns would anyone carry that around?" he ejaculated.

Kyle only shook his head. "Beats me. I don't think his original intent was to use it as a weapon, though I'm glad he missed when he tried." He rubbed the spot on his head that would certainly have been a tender lump had the object met its mark.

The guard shook his prisoner. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

His only answer was an animalian growl.

**oOo**

Janderschmidt stared in barely veiled surprise at the spanner that had come back through the transporters in apparently the same condition it had left. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hands. "It…appears to have worked," he admitted as if the very words were painful to say.

The vedek nodded solemnly. "Then I believe this is yours, ma'am," he said, holding the chest out to Dax with a bow.

"Thank you," Dax said quietly, as Janderschmidt looked as if he might be physically ill to see so much money slip through his fingers.

O'Brien found himself wondering if he truly had been that sure the transporter would fail, or if something else had happened that he hadn't expected.

A moment later, Janderschmidt seemed to recover himself and gave a false, bright smile. "You'll have no reservations about using my transporter to return, I trust?"

"Not at all," Dax agreed. Miles wasn't quite so sure, though it wasn't the transporters in which he had a lack of faith. Seeing Janderschmidt lean toward Shandison and the startled expression that crossed the young man's face, he suddenly knew he was right.

"There isn't room on the transporter pad for more than two; ladies first?" he suggested, gesturing toward Dax.

She threw him a startled look, but the symbiont Dax was far from as young and naïve as its current host might appear, and she stepped forward without arguing, gesturing for the vedek to accompany her.

The scowl that crossed Janderschmidt's face was truly dangerous, but there was no reason for him to argue and he was forced to let his guests depart in the order they chose. As Miles caught his murderous gaze, he was glad it was the security guard who had been left with him.

**oOo**

"What was that about?" Dax questioned when they all stood together on Deep Space Nine. "I expect Julian to be chivalrous to a fault, but not you."

"I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment," Miles said ruefully. "But I'm nearly certain that if you — or whoever happened to be carrying the latinum — had gone last, Janderschmidt had ordered Shandison to transport the person but leave the latinum behind."

"Is that even _possible_?"

Miles shrugged. "I suppose we would have found out — hopefully without you losing a finger or two into the bargain."

Dax shuddered. "Thank you, then," she said sincerely.

"But surely he doesn't think we're stupid enough not to notice it was missing?" the vedek protested.

"I can answer that," Dax said grimly. "He would have claimed it was unintentional, meaning that the transporters were _not_ in full working order, and the money was his anyway." She shook her head. "Honestly, if the money was mine to begin with, I would say to just let him have it if he wants it that badly!"

Miles chuckled and nodded to Reed as they walked past him out of the transporter room.

"Sir…was there something special about that spanner?" Reed questioned.

Miles paused, turning toward him. "I beg your pardon?"

"The spanner, sir," Reed repeated. "I had a young man in here claiming to be a student studying Cardassian transporter technology, but after you warned me not to touch the spanner, he tried to attack me trying to get to it."

Dax and O'Brien looked at each other. "Opportunistic, maybe?" O'Brien suggested. "He heard my warning, and assumed it was something worth taking."

Reed shook his head. "Can't be, sir. You were talking pretty low; I could just make out the words, and I doubt anyone even a few feet away would have heard more than radio crackle. I'm fairly certain my responses wouldn't have suggested anything, either. And another odd thing, sir, was what he attacked me with."

"Well, what was it, then?"

"Just a standard carry-all like any student might have — but inside was a half melted lump of metal that could hardly have been worth carrying around."

"Did it look like it could have been a spanner?" Dax asked with a sudden flash of insight.

"It looked like it could have been anything, sir. But, yes, the mass would have been about right for a spanner."

"Janderschmidt!" Dax spat, turning the name into a curse. "My guess is he was supposed to replace our spanner with that lump of metal — you saw how surprised he was when the spanner came through undamaged."

"And he didn't think we'd be suspicious when we learned someone had been attacked in the transporter room?" Miles asked skeptically.

Dax shrugged. "Maybe there wasn't supposed to be an attack; maybe Mr Reed wasn't supposed to notice at all."

"Come to think of it, I was the one who greeted him first," Reed remembered. "He was stammering a little when he told me what he was there for; I thought he was just bashful, but maybe he was making up his story on the fly."

"There; you see?"

"All right, but if he thought a Starfleet engineer would mistake any other kind of damage for transporter malfunction…"

"For all we know, maybe it really _was_ damaged in a transporter," Dax pointed out. "Either way, it would have been our word against theirs…" She sighed, shaking her head. "I guess I have to go talk to Odo. Unless you want to press changes, Reed" — the young man shook his head — "I'll tell him to hold the attacker until the _Cygnus_ leaves and then transport him on board — and I'm sure we all agree the sooner the better."

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	22. Catharsis

**Chapter Twenty-One: Catharsis**

Dax spoke to Odo, and called for Quark to meet her in Ops when she returned. There the latinum was returned to its owner, Dax insisting on a receipt. Only then did she join Miles in the infirmary waiting room. "Any word yet?"

Miles shook his head. "It must be bad," he said grimly.

"Probably, but I trust Julian's skill," Dax attempted to reassure him.

Miles only nodded, then looked up sharply and jumped to his feet as the door slid open and Dr Bashir stood there. He had changed into a uniform shirt, but still wore the pants and shoes from his adventure, as well as the sideburns and glasses he had forgotten or simply not bothered to remove. "How is he?" O'Brien demanded.

"Stable," Bashir replied, brushing a weary hand across his forehead and then pushing the gold frames up in an automatic gesture. "He's not conscious yet, but you can come see him if you want."

Dax nodded, and wordlessly she and O'Brien followed Bashir into the infirmary. The commander lay sleeping apparently peacefully, and Bashir took his wrist for a moment in a newly formed habit that would not disappear immediately, though a glance at the monitors could have told him as much. "He's stable and comfortable," he reported.

"What exactly is wrong with him?" Dax questioned.

Bashir sighed. "He was alone for several weeks before I entered the holoworld and was able to find him. As Miles and I expected, he was beaten several times — badly. The wounds were infected by the time I got there, of course; I did what I could but they never fully healed. And the nature of the program was such that when I stopped the beatings by buying him, he still showed the effects of them when they would have occurred. Not as badly, of course, but bad enough."

"But that was in the holoprogram," Dax objected. "How could his injuries transfer to real life?"

"Any injuries in a holosuite are real enough with the safeties off."

"Yes, I know, but you weren't 'there' in the usual way; you were actually _in_ the program as a transporter signature. Wouldn't that be static no matter what appeared to be happening within the program?"

"Obviously not," O'Brien stated. "I think it must have been somehow rewriting the signatures to reflect whatever happened within the program."

Bashir looked up. "Yes, and are we sure no one else was trapped there with us?"

"Yes," Miles assured him. "I didn't tell it which signatures to retrieve; if anyone else had been in there, they would have shown up with you."

Bahir nodded; they seemed to have forgotten he didn't know exactly how he and Sisko had been retrieved, but he understood enough to guess at the rest.

"So he _will_ be all right?"

"Eventually. I gave him an antibiotic, which should take care of the infection with a few more doses. But I had to clear away so much dead flesh that there's practically no skin left on his back; I'm growing new skin to graft on, but it could be upwards of a week before it's ready." He rubbed a hand wearily across his forehead, and Dax's eyes narrowed in concern.

"Julian, you look dead tired. You said he's stable; why don't you go back to your quarters and clean up and get some rest?"

Bashir shook his head. "He's so fragile emotionally; I don't want him to wake up and find I'm not here for him."

"You don't have him sedated?"

"Only as much as needed for the surgery; when that wears off he'll probably rouse some, and I'd rather not give him more if I don't have to."

"All right," Dax agreed, not questioning Bashir's decisions on how to treat a patient. "But O'Brien and I can stay with him; surely we'd be just as reassuring."

Bashir hesitated, then nodded. "I'll leave a hypospray with the nurse; call her to sedate him if he seems to be getting upset."

"We'll be fine. You go on now — but you might stop and have a word with Jake on your way."

"I will. Thank you, Jadzia."

Dax reached to squeeze his hand as he went past. "Thank _you_, Julian, for everything you did for him. Sitting beside him for a few hours is nothing compared to that."

**oOo**

Nearly two hours later, Ben stirred and moaned slightly. "Suh…"

Dax squeezed the hand she had been holding the whole time. "Shh, sir…it's Dax."

Ben blinked open eyes that struggled to focus. "Old Man?"

"Yes."

"Then…Miles did it? We're back?"

"Yes, you're back."

"Julian…?"

"He's here; he was working on you for hours, so I sent him to get some rest. How are you feeling?"

"Good…back doesn't hurt. Jake…?"

"We told him you're back, and Bashir stopped to talk with him on his way to his quarters."

"See him…?"

"Better not until Bashir clears you for visitors, and he looked so exhausted that I'm not disturbing him unless it's absolutely necessary."

Sisko sighed, his eyes drifting closed. "Stay with me, Old Man?"

"Of course, sir," Dax said. Softly, she began humming a Trill lullaby, and soon Ben had drifted back to sleep.

**oOo**

When Bashir returned, he looked much refreshed in his customary uniform, the gold-framed glasses gone.

"Keeping the sideburns?" Dax questioned with a grin.

Bashir rubbed a hand over the facial hair. "No, but it's still growing a touch faster than normal; if I shave them off completely I'll look scruffy in a few hours. In another month, maybe I'll be able to get away with it." He looked at the monitors over Sisko's bed and nodded in satisfaction. "Was he conscious at all?"

"For a few minutes."

"How did he seem, emotionally?"

"Glad to see me, and he asked about Jake."

"Hm. I wonder if he'll remember it as more than a dream when he's fully alert…" Bashir mused.

"Probably not," Dax admitted. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not. There's no need for you to stay now, Dax; I'm sure it must be long past time for you to be off duty."

"Yes," Dax admitted, getting to her feet. "Call me if anything changes."

"I promised Jake I'd call him as soon as his father is alert enough to see him; I'm not sure more than one visitor at that time would be wise."

"Call me if there's anything I need to know, then," Dax amended.

Bashir nodded. "Will do."

**oOo**

"O'Brien residence," Keiko responded to the chime of the communicator.

"Keiko, it's Dr Bashir; is Jake there?"

"Yes," Keiko responded even as Jake came hurrying in from the other room on hearing the doctor's voice.

"I'm here, sir; how's Dad?"

"Awake and eager to see you," Dr Bashir responded, the smile evident even in his voice.

Jake's own grin nearly split his face. "I'll be right down." Not pausing to sign off or say goodbye to Keiko, he hurried from the room so fast he nearly ran into the door before it had a chance to open.

Several people turned to look at him with curious expressions and raised eyebrows as he rushed through the promenade, but Jake noticed none of them. "Where is he?" he demanded, bursting into the infirmary.

"Calm down, Jake," Dr Bashir chuckled. "I can't let you see him if you're going to tackle him."

"Oh, sorry," Jake muttered, attempting to calm himself but still shifting from foot to foot in eagerness.

Dr Bashir chuckled again. "Come on, then," he gave in. "Just try not to excite him too much; he's recovering well, but he still needs his rest."

Jake responded with the barest nod as he followed Dr Bashir to his father's room.

"I've brought you a visitor, sir," Bashir announced with a grin.

Sisko slowly turned his head on the pillow. "Jake!"

"Dad," Jake whispered hoarsely. He stood for a moment as if unable to move, then dashed across the room, fell to his knees at his father's side, and burst into sobs with his head on the side of the bed.

Moving awkwardly, Sisko slowly put his arm around his son. "Jake, it's all right…_I'm_ all right."

A fresh sob shuddered over him at his father's words, but he gave no other sign of having heard. For some minutes his father simply held him, until at last he raised his head and swiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Here, Jake," Bashir said quietly, handing him a handkerchief. He had been narrowly observing the scene, but as long as Sisko's vitals remained within reasonable limits, he saw no need to interrupt something both of them likely needed.

"Thanks," Jake said thickly, blowing his nose noisily and wiping his eyes again. "Dad…I'm sorry."

Tears shone in Sisko's own eyes. "You were worried about me, Jake; I understand."

Jake shook his head hard. "No! It was all my fault, Dad! If you hadn't been trying to stop me —"

"That program was meant for me," Sisko reminded him softly. "Remember how Quark wouldn't give in until I agreed to try it? Whoever put him up to it…he wasn't after you."

"But he might not have _caught_ you if I hadn't —"

"No, Jake," Dr Bashir interjected. "Whatever might or might not have happened if your father had been alone, the fault for what _did_ happen lies with one person only — the person who gave Quark that program."

"Maybe, but it still _feels_ like my fault," Jake said soberly.

"Then I forgive you," Sisko assured him.

"Thanks, Dad," Jake whispered.

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	23. Payback

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Payback**

The dabo wheel spun in dizzying circles, blurring in front of Janderschmidt's alcohol-fogged eyes. Drunk on the beverages Quark kept plying him with and the heady certainty of his own success, it took only a whispered word from the dabo girl to encourage him to bet everything.

And it was then that everything came crashing down. And yet his head was swimming so badly by that time that he couldn't be sure if any of this was real or only a dream.

Quark was most solicitous, sending an escort to be sure he got back to his ship, where his crew would see him safely to bed. But when he had gone, Quark grinned widely and rubbed his hands together in glee. All his scheming had paid off, and soon the heavy, gleaming bars of latinum would be his.

**oOo**

Captain Janderschmidt woke the next morning with a throbbing headache and only a dim memory of what had happened the night before. He groaned as he tried to sit up, knowing it was the day the _Cygnus_ was leaving the station and he would have to go to Quark's to collect his twenty bars of latinum and his winnings of the night before.

Or…_were_ there any winnings? That last time, hadn't he bet everything…?

But, no. Surely even drunk he couldn't have been that foolish; it must have been merely an alcohol-induced dream.

But one attempt to sit up had been enough for him, and with another groan he reached for his communicator. First he would get his ship's doctor to give him something for this infernal headache, and then he would go down to collect his money.

A night of drinking had never bothered him so badly before, and he found himself wondering if that Ferengi barkeeper had given him something stronger than he had ordered.

"Curse it!" he muttered as he waited for the doctor's arrival. "Never trust a Ferengi!"

**oOo**

His ship's doctor gave him the pain medication he asked for without question or the embarrassment of an examination, and Janderschmidt's headache had receded to a dull throbbing by the time he made his way to Quark's bar half an hour later.

He paused outside the door, rubbing his forehead and frowning as he tried to recall his fuzzy memories of exactly what had happened the night before. _Were_ there winnings, or would he do better to leave without ever speaking to the bartender?

No…that part _had_ to be a dream; he would act as if it was. If he showed the least doubt, the Ferengi would pounce on it, taking advantage of it to pay less than what he owed.

Still he hesitated a moment longer before stepping through the door; did he truly believe he could out-bluff a Ferengi?

Then he drew a deep breath that sent a renewed stab of pain through his head, schooled his features into a confidence he didn't feel, and strode into the bar. "Quark!"

"My dear Janderschmidt!" Quart greeted him, his smile particularly oily as he appeared behind the bar. "I suppose you've come to settle accounts?"

"Indeed; I'm here to collect my winnings and the twenty bars you promised."

"Oh, but you're mistaken," Quack said smoothly, the smile never leaving his face. "You gambled away your winnings _and_ the twenty bars; in fact, that's roughly the amount you owe me."

"_What_?" Janderschmidt whispered, his face going white as he leaned forward on the bar with both hands. He had been prepared to believe he had forfeited all his winnings, perhaps even that he owed a few bars of latinum himself. But never in his wildest dreams had he expected the Ferengi to demand he _pay_ the twenty bars.

"You cheating Ferengi…!" he growled, leaning further across the bar and snarling as his head throbbed again in protest.

"Help!" Quark squeaked, suddenly no longer smiling.

One of the barstools began to melt, growing and resolving itself into a vaguely humanoid form; for the first time, Quark actually felt slightly relieved to see Odo. "He won't pay what he owes me!" he accused, jabbing an accusing finger at Janderschmidt, no longer cowering now that he was sure Odo wouldn't actually let anyone hurt him.

"I owe_ you_ —?" Janderschmidt spluttered in disbelief. He had been slightly startled at Odo's appearance, but the whole day had taken on a feverish, dreamlike feel, and nothing could entirely surprise him. "_He_ promised _me_ twenty bars of latinum — but I should have known better than to trust the word of a Ferengi," he said in disgust.

"Make him pay!" Quark demanded again.

"And what makes you so sure I'll take your side?" Odo questioned.

"I want to see someone in charge at this station!" Janderschmidt insisted.

"Both of you, up to Ops with me," Odo demanded.

"But my bar," Quark whimpered.

"Call Rom to watch it. You can come under your own power, Ferengi, or I can arrest you for attempting to provoke an interplanetary incident."

"But I haven't _done_ anything," Quark whined, even as he obeyed Odo's orders, calling his brother before allowing the shapeshifter to usher him from the room with Janderschmidt.

**oOo**

Dax nearly groaned aloud when she saw who Odo was bringing into Ops, but managed to force a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?"

"This Ferengi is trying to cheat me!"

"He won't pay what he owes!"

Quark and Janderschmidt both spoke at once, and Odo crossed his arms over his chest. "Quiet!" he ordered. "I heard them in the bar," he added to Dax. "Each of them claims the other owes him twenty bars of latinum."

Dax raised an eyebrow. "Explain," she said shortly.

Both of them opened their mouths at once, and Dax raised a hand. "One at a time. Captain Janderschmidt?"

"He offered me twenty bars of latinum to allow you to use my transporters," Janderschmidt explained, slightly calmer.

Dax's eyes widened, and she caught her breath in surprise.

"Less any dabo losses," Quark hastened to stipulate.

"And he lost forty bars. Is that how you claim the debt was reversed?"

"You could say so; he bet his entire payment."

"In a game I remember nothing of," Janderschmidt grumbled, pressing his hand for a moment to his temple. "Even so, that would only cancel it, not reverse it."

"But the agreed payment was twenty bars, less any dabo losses. He bet the _payment_, not twenty bars of latinum, so _everything_ reversed."

Dax closed her eyes, her own head spinning trying to follow Ferengi logic and arithmetic.

"Was that game rigged?" Odo demanded.

Quark blinked as if surprised at the question. "Of course it was. Everyone knows dabo's rigged; it's one of the risks of playing."

"He has a point there," Dax muttered, wishing she had kept silent when Quark's triumphant expression showed that he had heard. But a moment later her attention was all on Janderschmidt, whose face was suddenly an unhealthy-looking mottled orange and blue. "Captain? Are you all right?"

"Headache," he whispered, groping blindly for support. "Everything fuzzy…"

"Odo!" Dax said sharply; the shapeshifter reformed himself in time to catch Janderschmidt as he reeled back and collapsed.

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	24. Mixed Motives

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Mixed Motives**

"Dr Bashir to Ops!" Dax ordered, tapping her combadge.

"No…don't need doctor…" Janderschmidt murmured, struggling to rise. Odo's form molded around him, holding him still.

Dax shook her head firmly. "I can't let you leave until our doctor either clears you or gets your signature on a waiver stating you're leaving against medical advice."

"And _you're_ not leaving either," Odo growled, shooting out another appendage to catch Quark as he attempted to sidle past.

Dax's eyes narrowed. "You got him drunk, didn't you?"

"I didn't force him to drink it," Quark whined, struggling vainly in Odo's grasp.

"We'll talk about it later," Dax promised, turning away contemptuously as Dr Bashir burst through the doors.

"What's the problem?" he demanded. His quick eyes spotting the patient even as he spoke, and he dropped to his knees beside him, tricorder in hand.

"Janderschmidt collapsed," Dax explained. "He was drinking at Quark's last night, and Quark may have had reason to want to impair his faculties."

"I imagine you have quite a headache, then," Bashir remarked, acknowledging Dax with a nod and looking up from his tricorder with a smile for his patient. "Take anything for it?"

"My doctor gave me something…let me go to him…be all right."

Bashir shot a glance at Dax, who answered with a quick shake of her head.

"I'm afraid I can't let you transport just now; once I get you resting comfortably in the infirmary I can call your doctor to beam over and take over your treatment, if you prefer."

Janderschmidt sighed, his head lolling to the side, and Bashir pressed quick fingers to his pulse. "He's unconscious; I need to get him to the infirmary for tests." He tapped his combadge with one hand to call for a stretcher, at the same time pulling a hypospray from his medkit with the other hand. He injected its contents, and Janderschmidt's color seemed to improve a little.

As the arriving medics relieved him of serving as a cushion, Odo resumed his customary shape, one hand firmly clutching Quark's shoulder.

"But it isn't _my_ fault he's sick!" the Ferengi whimpered, his eyes darting back and forth.

"We'll leave that to be decided after Dr Bashir finds out what's wrong," Dax said firmly. "In the meantime there's still the question of who owes whom — and you _do_ admit to having gotten him drunk?"

"I suppose so, yes," Quark conceded grudgingly. "Serving drinks in my own bar isn't a crime."

"No. But this is a new low even for you, Quark; to take advantage of Commander Sisko's disappearance to cheat someone out of twenty bars of latinum."

"But I didn't!" Quark protested. "At least, I wasn't going to…"

Dax crossed her arms. "Explain," she said coldly.

"I heard he refused to let you use his transporters. I know how his kind thinks, even if you Federation people don't. He didn't really mean no; he was just waiting for you to offer him money. So…" He suddenly appeared ashamed, as if admitting to a crime — as indeed it was to a Ferengi.

"So you offered twenty bars of latinum," Dax said softly.

"He disappeared on my holosuite; it was the least I could do," Quark muttered. "I only thought afterward of how I could get the money back."

"I believe you," Dax said quietly, her expression softening. She sighed. "I'll grant that a rigged game is expected in dabo, but getting him drunk — or worse — and encouraging him to bet the payment goes beyond normal 'rigging.' So the twenty bars is off the table, but his other wins and losses stand."

Quark paled, thinking of the winning streak he had allowed Janderschmidt to get his guard down, and figuring rapidly to see if there was any possible way he could turn it in his favor. "But…that means…I owe him… ten…" He choked, for a moment appearing as if he, too, might collapse.

"Ten is better than twenty," Dax reminded him, "which you claim you originally fully intended to pay. And I know you have it, since we just returned it to you," she added dryly, wondering now if even the deposit had been Quark's idea. "Odo, escort him down to the bar to get it and bring it back here; I want to be able to keep my eye on it. After that he's free to return to his bar, but I don't want him leaving the station."

"As if I have reason to leave the station!" Quark exclaimed in an injured tone.

"I'm hoping you don't," Dax said grimly. "But the timing of Janderschmidt's illness seems just a little too coincidental to me."

**oOo**

"Did you find out what was wrong with him, Doctor?" Dax questioned when Bashir had joined her in the infirmary waiting room.

"Yes."

"And?"

"Can I assume you're asking in an official capacity?"

"Yes. Confidentiality aside, Julian, I have to know."

Bashir nodded. "Fair enough. Come into my office so we can talk privately."

He gestured for her to be seated, then took the chair behind the desk. "I found traces of terrezonic acid in his blood," he admitted quietly.

"Is that dangerous?"

"Not especially, at the levels I found; he probably could have recovered without treatment, though there have been instances when surgery was necessary to relieve pressure on the brain. At a dose very much higher, yes, it would have been dangerous if he didn't receive treatment within several hours of ingesting it."

"I see," Dax said grimly. "And how could he have come to 'ingest' this acid?"

"I think you already know," Bashir said quietly.

"Quark," Dax said on a sigh; she had so longed to believe he had nothing to do with it.

"Yes." Bashir hesitated. "To do him justice, I doubt he realized Janderschmidt was anything other than Earth human, and if that had been the case, the drug would have lowered Janderschmidt's inhibitions, without any adverse effects beyond an especially bad hangover."

Dax relaxed visibly. "In that case, Julian, could you not let on that Quark had anything to do with it?"

Bashir shrugged. "It would be true enough to tell him he ate some kind of alien food that wasn't safe for his species. But since when are you so eager to protect Quark?"

"Since he offered Janderschmidt twenty bars of latinum to let us use his transporters to get you and Sisko back," Dax said softly. "He was originally going to pay it, too, until his avarice got the best of him."

"Ah. I never would have thought it of him."

"Me, either," Dax admitted. "Maybe we've all misjudged him…a little."

Bashir grinned. "Yes; only a little!"

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

**A/N: I'm not one to beg for reviews (and I don't even want the "reviews" that just say "Great chapter" without any comments about what the person especially liked about it), but I am curious…with over two thousand views on this story, why is only one person reviewing? (Thanks, Tamuril!) Barbie**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	25. Debriefing

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Debriefing**

Commander Sisko eased himself into the conference room chair, though the gel dressing that covered his back like an artificial skin actually kept him from feeling any discomfort. Still, Bashir kept a close eye on him, watching narrowly for any signs of fatigue. This was the first time he had been allowed from the infirmary to meet with the senior staff and put together their stories of what had happened.

Dax waited for Sisko to open the meeting as was his prerogative; when he didn't, she cleared her throat softly. "Commander."

Sisko looked up sharply — though not, Bashir noted, meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room. "Oh, ah, yes. Old Man, what can you tell us about what happened here on your end?" He seemed most comfortable with Dax, Bashir observed, perhaps because the lieutenant was neither male nor a white Terran.

Dax sighed. "You know Quark was very insistent you try the program."

"Yes — though somehow I can't really believe he was behind it — not without something in it for him, anyway."

"He wasn't," Dax assured him quickly. "His only fault was his usual greed, and perhaps asking too few questions."

"Though even that is pardonable when you consider what species he was dealing with," Bashir put in.

Sisko's brow furrowed; normally he would have asked immediately for an explanation, but today he remained silent.

"True," Dax admitted. "It was given to him by a Manthracite; looking into their eyes increases whatever you might already be feeling, and in Quark's case I'm sure we all know what that was."

"So this Manthracite had something against me personally, or was it meant as an attack on the station through its…leader?" He was still more comfortable responding to Dax, Bashir noted, and had stumbled over the word _leader_ as if hesitant to apply it to himself.

"We don't know; he had left the station before you tried the program. But we were able to identify him as Salderman Digator; is that name familiar to you?"

Sisko closed his eyes in thought. "Yes…" he murmured slowly. "But I can't think from where…"

The others remained silent, giving him a moment to ponder it.

"It was when I was a child," he remembered at last, speaking as if half asleep. "He was a student at my school… That's what that handbill meant!" he exclaimed, jerking back to full alertness.

"Handbill?" O'Brien questioned.

"In the program," Sisko replied, his voice slurring into slave accents as he recalled the holosuite. "A handbill blew by…addressed to me. I think it said, 'Now you know how I felt, Sisko.'"

"It's certainly possible to put something like that in the program," O'Brien remarked. "But what did he mean, now you know how he felt?"

"He was the only non-human at the school," Sisko explained softly. "We teased him, of course; you know how kids will. I confess, I was something of a ringleader. I wouldn't admit it even to myself, but I was afraid of his eyes…they gave me nightmares sometimes."

"And Manthracites' eyes magnify emotions, including fear," Bashir murmured.

"My teasing him was just a cover for that, a way to make me feel in control," Sisko concluded softly. He sighed, shaking his head. "I had no idea it affected him so badly; I wish now I could go back and apologize."

Dax crossed her arms. "I don't," she said flatly. "What you did was wrong, Ben; I won't deny that. But you were just a child, and there's nothing you could possibly have done to him as a child that would have been even one tenth as bad as what he did to you."

"He's as responsible for every wound on your back as if he had wielded the lash himself," Bashir added coldly, a hard glint in his eye that made Dax think even his Oath as a doctor wouldn't hold him back from exacting punishment if the opportunity presented itself.

"And I don't think he ever expected us to be able to get you back," O'Brien added softly.

"How did you?" Bashir asked, his natural curiosity suddenly asserting itself. "I've only heard bits and pieces."

O'Brien looked at Dax, who nodded for him to explain. "Hawkinson discovered that you were trapped in the program as a transporter holding pattern. We were able to borrow the transporters from a visiting ship, and use them to retrieve you."

"Which Digator was surely aware we would be able to do?" Dax suggested.

Miles shrugged. "In theory, probably. But he likely expected us to study the program directly instead of making a copy — and that would have scrambled the signatures long before we ever knew they were there."

Sisko shuddered and Bashir winced slightly, though actually it would have been a completely painless death; a simple ceasing to exist.

"You're sure about that, aren't you?" Dax asked soberly.

"I've been studying that program forward and backward; yes, I'm sure."

Dax sighed. "I'll alert Starfleet to put out a warrant for him, but my guess is he's long gone from Federation space, and I have my doubts we'll ever see him again."

**oOo**

Quark looked up with interest as a stranger walked into his bar, having finally lost the fear reflex inspired by Digator's visit. Gradually he had convinced himself that the alien's vow to be always watching was mere bluff meant to frighten him into compliance, and not anything the man could make good on. Surely if he had been spying on Quark, he would already have exacted retribution for the aid the Ferengi had given Dax and O'Brien. So Quark, too, had convinced himself that he would never see the Manthracite again.

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	26. Wounds and Scars

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Wounds and Scars**

Sisko had recovered enough that Bashir released him from the infirmary to sleep in his quarters with Jake, thinking perhaps the familiar setting would do him good. But he refused to clear him for duty until after his back had fully healed, and was more worried over Sisko's lack of protest than over the wounds that here on the station were fully treatable.

"The skin graft is ready for implant," he told him after checking his condition one morning, "and you're definitely stable enough for surgery. So I'd like you to come back to the infirmary with me now to start the preparations; then I can operate first thing tomorrow."

"Whatever you say, suh," Sisko said, keeping his head down. Bashir longed to insist that the commander look into his eyes, but knew that at this moment it would only be taken as another order.

Sighing, Bashir got to his feet. "I may want to keep you a day or two, so you might want to see if Jake wants to stay with the O'Briens again."

"I'll do that, suh."

"I'll be waiting for you at the infirmary, _sir_," Bashir promised, slightly emphasizing the final word.

Sisko's eyes flicked up for a moment, appearing almost startled, but then they lowered again in submission and Bashir left without waiting for further reply.

**oOo**

"Do you want to stay with the O'Briens again while Dr Bashir is fixing my back?" Sisko questioned. Only with his son did he seem fully himself, and even then hints of a southern accent tended to slip through. But then, he _had_ been raised in the south, and its accents weren't completely foreign to him.

"Not if I don't have to," Jake admitted. "My bed's more comfortable than their sofa, and I don't mind sleeping alone here as long as you're safe on the station."

"It's up to you," Sisko agreed. "But if you're staying here on your own, I want your promise that you won't be getting up to mischief with Nog."

"I promise," Jake said quickly.

"And I don't suppose I even have to ask you to stop by the infirmary once a day, as long as Dr Bashir is letting me have visitors."

Jake grinned. "Just try to keep me away!"

"Walk down with me, then," Sisko invited. "And you be sure to let the O'Briens or Dax or Dr Bashir know if you need anything."

"Of course, Dad," Jake said with a tolerant sign.

Sisko smiled. "I know I fuss too much," he said by way of apology. "But when I was trapped in that program, I was worrying about you all the time…"

"_I_ was fine," Jake muttered, looking significantly at his father's back.

"I know that," Sisko admitted. "But as a father, I couldn't help worrying anyway. Come on; let's go before Dr Bashir comes to find out what's become of me."

**oOo**

The next day, Bashir removed the gel dressing after sedating Sisko. The soothing fluid had done its work well; the exposed muscle now looked as clean as if laid bare by a surgeon's scalpel, and so no longer turned Julian's stomach to look at.

The muscle had begun to heal across the deepest gashes, where the infection had been too well established to use a regenerator before. Now Bashir reopened them precisely with a laser scalpel to avoid the scarring that would cause a permanent stiff back, then used the muscle regenerator to heal it seamlessly.

Then at last he was ready for the great sheet of skin, fresh from its growth medium and delicate as his aides carefully brought it in. At Bashir's direction, they laid it over Sisko's back, and then he spent some time smoothing it until it lay perfectly over the muscle.

Then he trimmed the edges to precisely fit the contours of the great raw area, and ran the dermal regenerator around the edges to seal them.

Picking up another device, he pressed it to Sisko's back at strategic points, anchoring the new skin in place.

At last, hours after he had started, the transplant was complete, and he applied another gel dressing to keep any pressure off the new skin until it had fused completely.

An hour after the surgery, Sisko woke, turning his head slowly and seeming to relax when he caught sight of Bashir and the modern equipment behind him. "Back…home…?" he murmured.

"Yes, sir; we've been home for a while now. I just finished fixing your back; how does it feel?"

"Good…suh."

"Not sir," Bashir scolded him gently. "I'm going to help you roll over; we'll take it slowly, and you let me know if anything hurts."

In several minutes he had Sisko situated against the pillows, looking a little more alert as the effects of the anesthetic continued to wear off.

"No pain or discomfort?" the doctor verified.

"No, suh."

Bashir sighed slightly but didn't correct him again, the subservience of Sisko's replies making him realize he couldn't fully trust their truthfulness.

He ran a quick tricorder scan, nodding at the results. "Looks like you're up for a visit from Jake anytime you want," he offered with a grin. "Shall I call him?"

"Yes…please," Sisko agreed.

**oOo**

"I see you cleared Sisko for duty," Dax observed a little over a week later.

"Yes," Bashir replied briefly, glancing up from his datapadd for barely an instant.

"You think he's fit, then?" Dax probed.

"Physically, yes. I wouldn't advise any vigorous exercise just yet, but I don't see a problem with his duties here on the station."

"But emotionally?" Dax asked softly.

Bashir sighed. "I just don't know," he admitted, rubbing his forehead. "We need a counselor on this station; I can't deal with psychological scars nearly as easily as the scars on his back."

"You see it, too, then."

"Of course. I may not be a psychologist, but I'm not blind. I probably see it even more than you do, since I'm a 'white' Terran; he's a little more relaxed around 'aliens.'" He sighed again. "It's partly my fault, you know."

Dax frowned. "Don't start blaming yourself for whatever you can't cure, Julian."

Bashir laughed darkly. "I wish it were that simple. But his submission was mostly an act until I had to ask him to behave that way with me, too — even in private; it was the only way to be sure he wouldn't slip at the wrong time. But that's what really broke him. He was barely convinced it was really me anyway; I think part of him thought my domineering was real and not an act at all."

"I still think you're taking too much on yourself, Julian," Dax insisted.

Bashir shrugged. "I don't suppose it changes anything," he dismissed.

"Lacking a counselor, it _is_ your call to remove him from duty for psychological reasons," Dax reminded him softly.

"I know, but I can't help thinking that maybe command is just what he needs."

"I can appreciate that, but what if he can't handle it in an emergency?"

"What do we ever do if a commander is incapacitated during an emergency?" Bashir returned. "But I can put a proviso in his release for duty, making it easier for you to override him if necessary — not that his trying to keep command is going to be the problem."

Dax grimaced. "No," she admitted, "but put the proviso anyway."

"I will," Bashir promised. "And tell the crew to call him sir as much as possible, especially white Terrans; maybe that will help."

Dax merely gazed at him in quiet sadness, and Bashir turned away, not believing his own words.

**Next chapter coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	27. Back in Command

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Back in Command**

This wasn't going to work, Dax realized as once again she gently suggested to Sisko what his orders should be, then heard him stumble over giving them. The crew called him sir as they had been directed, but she had seen the looks they gave each other when they thought no one was looking; they were losing respect for the commander as he had lost respect for himself.

She would have to talk to Bashir again, she determined; a week was certainly enough time for command to start to help if it was going to. She would strongly suggest that Bashir suspend Sisko from active duty, perhaps send him to Earth or some nearer planet for counseling.

She was jolted out of her musing by a cry from the crewman at one of the viewscreens. "Ship just uncloaked two degrees off the wormhole — she's firing, sir!"

"Shields on full — red alert!" Sisko and Dax both spoke the words at the same time, and Dax looked at the commander, startled. He was leaning forward in his chair, all trace of the slave gone from his features. "Put that ship onscreen," he ordered tersely.

"Onscreen, sir," the crewman responded, the word falling naturally from his lips now.

Dax gasped softly at the image of a ship that appeared on the large screen. "The _Cayman_," she breathed. "Digator's ship, sir"

"Is that so?" Sisko murmured softly, dangerously. "Hail them, Old Man — and don't let my face show in the transmission."

"Aye, sir," she responded almost gladly; despite the danger, she nearly smiled just at having an order from him to obey.

"Deep Space Nine calling _Cayman_; you have fired without provocation on a Federation space station in time of peace."

Digator's hypocritically smiling face appeared on the screen. "And are you the commander of that station, my girl?"

At a gesture from Sisko, the transmission switched to him. "No. _I_ am."

Digator looked as if he had seen a ghost, dark spots standing out in sharp relief on his face. "_You_!" he breathed. "But you were supposed to be…" He trailed off, his eyes darting back and forth as if realizing he might have said too much.

Sisko smiled grimly. "Did you truly think so little of my crew's ability to get me back, Digator?"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," Digator said smoothly, recovering his poise and with it his species' seeming command of everyone around him.

"We both know you do," Sisko said with equal assurance in his voice. But a moment later, he had softened. "I know why you did it, Salli," he said gently, using Digator's childhood pet name. "And I want to tell you I'm sorry…for what I did to you when we were children."

Dax scowled; Sisko might well owe Digator an apology for those old offenses, but she felt now was hardly the time for it. But she kept silent, wishing to do nothing to undermine the authority Sisko had finally found again.

Digator threw back his head and laughed. "So, is that what you think this is about?" he asked finally, tears running down his face.

"Isn't it?" Sisko asked quietly.

The Manthracite sobered, his eyes hardening into narrow slits of obsidian. "Yes," he hissed, his voice taking on the reptilian accents of his homeworld. "You humiliated me, 'Benji' — and no one humiliates a Manthracite!"

"Yet you did far more than humiliate me."

"Call it interest and back pay — if such things can be measured. Humiliation is far worse to a Manthracite than physical pain, so I think my retaliation was indeed in kind. Not that I should have to explain myself to _you_," he added with the scorn of someone who believed Sisko was less than nothing. "And how did you find out it was me? If that sniveling Ferengi told…"

Cold anger blazed in Sisko's eyes; Dax found herself thinking that if the amplification of a Manthracite's eyes worked over the communicator, the commander would be ready to kill. "You won't touch Quark, or any resident of this station," he fairly growled, and Dax couldn't help wondering if the power _was_ at work.

Digator's eyes narrowed. "You and your petty space station are powerless to stop me, Sisko; I will do whatever I want to whomever I want."

"Not on my station, you won't," Sisko insisted coldly. "You don't scare me anymore, Digator. Sisko out." He brought his hand down sharply on the arm of his chair, signaling the communications officer to end the transmission.

"Get a tractor beam on that ship," he ordered quietly; "I don't want him getting away again." He tapped his combadge. "Sisko to Security."

"Security; Odo here."

"Prepare at team to beam to the ship _Cayman_ and arrest its captain for attempted murder of a Starfleet officer."

"Aye, sir," Odo said instantly, not questioning his commander's orders or asking yet for more information.

Dax caught her breath at the charge, but she supposed _murder_ really was the best term for what Digator had tried to do. She looked closely at Sisko, but saw no hint in his features that it was vengeance he was seeking.

"Tractor holding, sir."

"Sir, the _Cayman_'s hailing us."

"Ignore him; he has nothing more to say that I want to hear."

Moments later Odo and five security officers poured into Ops, heading straight for the transporters.

"Lower shields just long enough to beam them over," Sisko warned.

"Why isn't _he_ shielded?" Dax mused, almost under her breath.

Sisko half shrugged. "Arrogance?" he suggested.

"Let's just hope his 'arrogance' doesn't turn out to be well-founded," Dax said soberly in the instant before Odo and his men transported. "He had the technology to create that transporter program, don't forget."

"Yes, but you beat him," Sisko reminded her. "No matter what he has, I know my crew here can beat him again."

Dax grinned. "With you at its head," she agreed. "Welcome back, _Commander_ Sisko."

**Epilogue coming next week! (…hopefully) **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	28. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Dax grew concerned as she watched Sisko waiting for the security team to return with Digator, wondering if under the influence of a Manthracite's eyes, the commander's feeling of owing Digator an apology would increase until he actually offered the man a pardon. She had no wish to undermine the commander's newly-recovered authority, yet surely it was within her own jurisdiction to suggest precautions be taken. "Dax to Odo," she murmured, tapping her combadge.

"Odo here," he responded. "Something wrong, Lieutenant?"

"No. But please have the Manthracite blindfolded when you beam him over; the species has the power of increasing emotions through eye contact, and I don't want him working it on anyone here — or anyone on your contact team, for that matter."

"Understood, sir," Odo agreed.

"Thank you," Dax responded, tapping her combadge and glancing at Sisko to see if he had noticed; if he had, he wasn't letting on.

And when Dax saw Sisko at last face his nemesis, she knew her fears had been groundless. Digator's threat to Quark had awakened in him a commander's protectiveness of those in his charge, and that rather than his boyhood guilt was his dominant emotion as he stood with arms crossed in front of the Manthracite. "You're under arrest, Digator," the commander said quietly, "on a charge of attempted murder and threats against a resident of my station. Odo, take him to the brig until we can contact a Starfleet vessel to take him to Earth for prosecution."

"You'll probably have to go to Earth to testify," Dax remarked once Odo had led the prisoner away.

Sisko smiled. "I might take Jake along and make a vacation of it."

"You should," Dax agreed. "But I bet Quark won't be as agreeable when he finds out his presence is also needed!"

Passing Quark's on his way to the infirmary for his final checkup with Dr Bashir, Sisko remembered that conversation and smiled ruefully as he shook his head, wondering just what they would have to go through to pry the Ferengi loose from his bar long enough to go to Earth and testify.

**oOo**

"You're completely cleared for duty with no restrictions," Bashir told the commander, looking up from his tricorder with a smile. "So I don't need to see you in here until your next physical…which is in two months, in case you forgot."

Sisko grimaced. "I was hoping you would. Why can't you just let this count as my physical?"

Bashir shook his head, smiling ruefully. "I'd be happy to, but the officials at Starfleet Medical wouldn't look too kindly on it. And, no, I will not fake a report for them."

Sisko sighed. "Ah, well, it was worth asking," he said in half feigned disappointment. "Thank you…for everything, Julian."

"Not everything," Bashir said soberly. "In some ways I hurt you as deeply as Digator did when I asked you to treat me as your master — and don't try to deny it."

"All right, I won't," Sisko agreed. "But I understand that you were only doing what you had to do — and as masters go, you make a good one. Just don't let that go to your head; I'm not planning on relinquishing command anytime soon."

"N-no, sir, of course not," Julian stammered. "I've never wanted command of anything more than my infirmary."

Sisko looked at him a little oddly, his protest seeming too strong in response to a half jesting comment. But he could not doubt the truth of his words, and merely smiled at the doctor. "Where you do an excellent job."

Bashir grinned. "I know," he said in unashamed arrogance.

Sisko chuckled. "Let's both get back to work then, shall we?"

Bashir nodded. "As you say, sir," he agreed.

"It is as I say, and don't you forget it."

And the look in his eyes and Bashir's answering smile both said far more than words.

**THE END**

**A/N:** **I'm marking this story as complete, but when I finish writing the outtake Tamuril2 requested, I will be posting it as additional chapters on this story.**

**The next story I plan to post is a Narnia one, but after that I'll be back to Deep Space Nine with a strange ailment on the station…and Jake is the first not to wake up. Barbie **

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	29. Outtake Part One

**This outtake is written for Tamuril2. (And if anyone has a title for it, it would be most appreciated!)**

**If you read Portal as I was originally posting it (and have a good memory for details), you may notice a small discrepancy between this outtake and the scene as remembered in the story. However, don't go back looking for it now, as I have since edited that chapter to match this! Barbie**

**Historical Disclaimer: Since this is a holosuite, not real history, I have not made an effort to be a hundred percent historically accurate. However, any racist language is meant to be a reflection of that time, and in no way reflects my opinions.**

**Outtake Part One**

_Bashir had seen no other doctor since he had been here, and realized that each person trapped in the program must simply step into the place of one of the original characters, matched perhaps by some degree of similarity. It was easy to see how Sisko had found himself a slave, and Bashir guessed his stethoscope and other medical equipment had allowed him to take over seamlessly for the doctor._

_**~ Chapter 18: Endless Cycle**_

Monty Pearson, son of the livery stable's owner, stood tapping his riding crop against his leg, watching idly as his father's huge slave saddled his horse for him. In the corner, a small black boy struggled to muck out a stall with a pitchfork nearly twice as big as he was.

Monty let out a snort of laughter as the pitchfork twisted in the boy's hands, the handle coming down to hit him in the head. "That your boy, Humphrey?" he drawled.

"Yes, suh," the black man answered without taking his eyes from his work, "him's my Cletus."

"How did someone as big as you ever spawn such a runt?" Monty asked in mocking wonder.

"He'll grow, suh," Humphrey offered, seeming to hear something vaguely threatening in the other man's voice.

"Until he does, I doubt my father gets enough work out of him to cover the cost of feeding him. Runts like that should be drowned at birth, like kittens."

"He don' eat much, suh," Humphrey insisted as Monty strode a step closer to the little black boy.

The child's eyes rolled wildly as he looked up at his master, wide with terror in his thin face. "Show me you can earn your keep, boy," he ordered, flicking the tip of his crop at the boy's bare legs. "Or shall we go out to the pond?"

"No, suh! I work, suh!" He stabbed energetically with the pitchfork with more haste than care, then let out a cry as a sharp tine pierced through his bare foot, pinning him to the floor.

"Clumsy!" Monty jeered. "No!" he added, flicking his crop warningly at Humphrey as the man took a step toward his son. "You stay back, or he goes straight into the pond."

Anguish twisted Humphrey's features, but he dropped his gaze submissively. "Yes, suh," he muttered.

"Go ahead, boy," Monty purred. "Pull that out."

Cletus whimpered, staring at him in incomprehension.

"Go on! Do it!" Monty ordered sharply. "Or do you want to stay nailed to the floor like that?" He flicked the crop so the tip caught the top of the boy's pinned foot.

Knowing he could do far worse if he chose, Cletus grabbed the handle of the pitchfork in both hands and pulled it free with a sudden jerk. With an involuntary cry, the child crumpled to the ground unconscious, and Monty laughed harshly and kicked the still form with the toe of his boot. "I was right; you should have drowned that runt like a stray kitten."

"Yes, suh," Humphrey said tonelessly. "Your horse is ready, suh."

"Bring it outside," Monty ordered.

Humphrey obeyed, keeping his face set rigidly ahead, and held the horse's head for Monty to mount. As Monty gathered the reins, he flicked his crop across Humphrey's bare shoulders, just hard enough to sting. Then with a careless laugh he was off, riding out of the stableyard.

Humphrey waited until there was no chance the man would look back and see him before turning to hurry to his son's side.

But as he did so, he saw a figure approaching the stable, and his shoulders slumped as he recognized the doctor, a notoriously bad rider who would need help getting off — though the man would never admit it.

"Here, Doctuh Murray, suh," he offered, catching the horse's bridle to stop it and reaching a hand to the rider without seeming to notice that the doctor had changed in appearance since he rode out.

"Bashir; it's Dr Bashir," the man corrected, dismounting fluidly without accepting the man's aid.

Yet Humphrey seemed unaware of the change in name, even as his face registered no surprise at the doctor's new-found skill in riding. "I'll take yoh horse, suh," he said, then tensed as a thin whimper sounded from within the stable.

"What was that?" Dr Bashir demanded.

"Just a kitten, suh," Humphrey dismissed; the sooner the doctor left, the sooner he would be able to go to his son's side.

The cry came again, and Dr Bashir's eyes narrowed. "That was no kitten," he hissed, pushing past Humphrey and running into the stable.

Following the sound of the whimpers, he quickly found the child lying curled on the floor and dropped to his knees beside him. You couldn't call such a dark face pale, he reflected, but as he looked at the features pinched and bloodless with pain, the only word that came to mind was ashen.

"Hey, sonny, where are you hurt?" he asked gently.

"My foot," he whimpered.

A glance at the blood-smeared pitchfork told Bashir the rest, and he brushed a soothing hand over the boy's forehead.

Hearing Humphrey approach behind him, Dr Bashir turned to glare up at him. "You knew it wasn't a kitten in here," he accused harshly. "Why didn't you tell me a little boy needed my help?"

Humphrey blinked. "He's…black, suh."

Bashir shook his head impatiently. "I don't care if he's…orange with purple polka dots; he needs a doctor."

"Massa won' pay you, suh," Humphrey said doubtfully.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Bashir demanded.

The child whimpered again, and Bashir softened instantly. "All right, buddy, you'll be fine," he soothed, gathering the boy in his arms. "Dr Julian's going to fix you right up." He lay him on top of a stack of hay bales that stood against the barn walls. "Get me one of those horse blankets," he ordered, shrugging out of his coat and folding it to tuck under the boy's head. "He's going to go into shock if we don't keep him warm." Accepting the thick blanket, he tucked it gently around the boy, then opened his bag on one of the lower bales.

"All right, son, I'm going to give you something to make you sleepy and help it hurt a little less," he murmured, uncorking a bottle and pouring a little of the thick fluid it contained into a teaspoon.

"Son?" Humphrey murmured.

Bashir glanced quickly toward him, recognizing his error, but didn't attempt to correct it as he slipped an arm under the boy's shoulders, raising his head to lie in the crook of his own shoulder. "I know it doesn't taste good, but you need to be a good boy and swallow all of it," Bashir encouraged. *** **

Cletus obeyed, coughing slightly on the bitter liquid. "Easy," Bashir murmured, rubbing his back.

He cradled the boy until his eyelids began drooping sleepily, then gently laid his head down on the folded coat. "Just lie quiet while I check your foot," he murmured. "You…what's your name, anyway?" he added, addressing the man.

"Humphrey, suh," he replied, sounding slightly surprised that a white man had bothered to ask. "Him's my boy, Cletus."

Bashir nodded acknowledgement. "Humphrey, why don't you sit here by Cletus. I didn't dare give him enough to put him under, so he may need some comfort."

He shifted down the hay bales until he was next to Cletus' foot, allowing Humphrey to take his place at the boy's head. Gently he wiped away the blood and began probing the swollen flesh around the injury.

"Well, looks like he managed to avoid any damage to the bones or tendons," he murmured, keeping his voice low and soothing. "That means once this wound heals up, he should be able to walk without much of a limp."

Taking a bottle from his bag, he uncorked it, wrinkling his nose slightly at the strong odor of the raw whiskey it contained. Soaking a square of cloth, he began swabbing the ugly wounds on the top and bottom of the boy's foot.

"Doctuh, he's done fainted!" Humphrey exclaimed in alarm.

"Good," Bashir said briefly. "That means he won't feel it when I clean this out." But he paused briefly in his work to check the boy's pulse and monitor his breathing for a moment.

"Doctuh," Humphrey whispered, daring now to ask a question of a white man, "that pitchfork was all rusty…he gon' get lockjaw?"

Bashir's jaw tightened as he glanced at the filth covering the blood-smeared tine; he did not attempt to explain that rust had never given tetanus to anyone. "Not if I can get it cleaned out well enough," he said grimly.

Taking a square of cloth, he soaked it well in whiskey, then twisted the center into a cord and began pushing it through Cletus' foot, following the path of the wound left by the tine.

The boy moaned slightly, and Bashir winced in sympathy, imagining the screams he would have been hearing if the child had been awake. "Shh, sonny, I'm sorry," he murmured. Gently spreading the excess cloth open on top of Cletus' foot, he poured more whiskey down the hole, letting the alcohol soak through the cloth and disinfect the wound in the only way he knew how.

At last he gripped the small bit of twisted cloth at the sole of Cletus' foot and slowly pulled the rag the rest of the way through, swabbing the puncture as thoroughly as he could. A little blood oozed out after it, and Bashir gently swabbed it away.

He had few ointments or salves, or at least none that would do any good, and had to settle for bandaging the foot without a dressing. "That's the best I can do," he told Humphrey, straightening and tucking the foot under the blanket before latching his bag. "Why don't you take him on home now?"

Humphrey looked at him in horror. "Massa, if I leave the stable on count o' him, Massa Monty's gon' throw him in the pond like he say."

Dr Bashir scowled darkly. "Inhuman monster," he muttered. "Is there anyone at your house?"

"My woman Leanthy, she does washin'; she'll be there."

"I'll take him over for you, then; where is it?"

Too stunned to protest, Humphrey stammered out the directions.

Bashir nodded, lifting Cletus' slight weight and then picking up his bag. "I'll bring the blanket back," he promised.

"Thank you, suh," Humphrey said hesitantly, as if unused to having anything for which to thank a white man.

Several blocks down the street, the child stirred in Bashir's arms. "Poppa…?"

"No, buddy; it's Dr Julian," he said softly. "I fixed up your foot, remember, and now I'm taking you home so you can rest."

Alarm leapt into Cletus' eyes, and he began wiggling ineffectually in Bashir's arms. "I cain't rest, massa doctuh, suh! I gots to go back to work!"

"You _have_ to rest, or your foot's going to make you sick," Bashir said firmly. "And I should think it would hurt too much to work, anyway." He had originally guessed Cletus' age to be around six, but now he saw something in his face that led him to amend it to ten, though far too small for his age.

"That don' matter," Cletus insisted. "I gotta work, or Massa Monty's gon' throw me in the pond like he say!"

Bashir's arms tightened protectively around the child. "No one's throwing you in the pond," he promised grimly; "not on my watch. Now you just lie quiet and don't worry."

Cletus sighed a little and let his head fall against Bashir's shoulder. It was not a gesture of trust, the doctor knew; he simply lacked the strength to struggle further.

"Poor little kid," he murmured, rubbing a thumb over the dark-skinned cheek his mind persisted in thinking of as pale. Perhaps, he mused, in treating so many varied species on the station, the word had come to indicate something other than color to his mind.

Even if Humphrey's directions had been unclear, Bashir would have known when he reached the correct shack by the clouds of steam billowing from the open door. Approaching the entrance, he peered in, catching a glimpse of a black woman before his costume glasses fogged over. "Hello, ma'am?"

A snort of derision greeted him. "'Ma'am'? I ain't no ma'am; just an old black mammy." Looking toward him at last, she saw the child in his arms, and her tone instantly changed. "Lawsy, what happened?"

"Cletus ran the pitchfork through his foot," Bashir explained quietly. "I'm Dr Bashir; I cleaned it up as well as I could, but he needs to rest and stay off it. Where's his bed?"

"Here, suh," she responded, and Bashir pulled off the useless glasses, wondering absently how nearsighted he should pretend to be as he followed her across the little room.

Cletus whimpered slightly as Bashir laid him down, and he brushed a hand over the boy's forehead. "Shh, buddy, it's all right." He polished the lenses of the glasses on his shirtsleeve before putting them back on and turning to find Leanthy watching him with suspicion.

"Why would a white doctuh wanna treat a lil' pickaninny like him?" Leanthy demanded.

Bashir looked at her evenly, so that she was forced to lower her gaze slightly to avoid meeting a white man's eyes. "Where I come from, a hurt child is a hurt child, regardless of color."

Leanthy snorted in disbelief. "An' where might that be, massa?"

"England," Bashir responded, taking the chance that she knew less about racial prejudice in the England of this time than he did. Opening his bag, he removed two paper envelopes. "These are for the pain," he told her. "Mix one with water and give it to him at bedtime, and the other in the middle of the night if he needs it."

Leanthy took the packets slowly, as if afraid they might burn her fingers, her distrust of him still evident in her eyes.

"If he's up to eating, you can give him a little thin gruel or corn mush," Bashir continued, "but if he's not hungry, just make sure he drinks plenty of water. I'll stop by tomorrow to check on him."

"No need for that, massa," Leanthy told him stiffly. "I done take care of his cuts 'fore; I gotta real good salve."

"That's as may be, ma'am…Leanthy…but this wound is too serious for even the best of folk remedies. It needs close medical supervision, at least until the danger of infection is past. So just try to keep him comfortable, and I'll see you in the morning."

**Part Two coming next week!**

*** Illustration for this scene can be found at deviantart . com **_[slash] _**femalechauvinist **_[slash] _**art **_[slash] _**Comfort-Measures-853940321**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	30. Outtake Part Two

**Outtake Part Two**

_Bashir had noticed that the illnesses and injuries to which he was called were beginning to repeat themselves. It wasn't multiple people developing the same illness, but the same person calling him again for the same symptoms, often before he had fully recovered the first time. Yet to everyone except Bashir, it was as if the first time had never happened. The cases came in varying orders, and the same one might occur at different times of day, but they always repeated._

_**~ Chapter 18: Endless Cycle**_

Ben pulled the doctor's carriage to a stop in front of the livery stable, and Bashir got out before his slave had a chance to open the door for him. In the stableyard, the big slave owned by the stable's proprietor was just helping his master's son to mount. Bashir winced as the white man flicked his riding crop across the slave's bare shoulders before laughing carelessly and riding off.

"Are you all right?" he questioned, taking a step forward.

"Yes, massa," the slave replied tonelessly, and seeing no blood, Bashir took him at his word.

"Wha's that?" Ben questioned, cocking his head at a sound from inside the barn as he led the horses toward it.

"Jus' a kitten," Humphrey dismissed, reaching for the reins. "Here, I'll take yoh horses for ya."

The whimper came again, and Bashir's eyes narrowed. "That was no kitten!" he hissed, pushing past Humphrey and running into the stable. "Come on, Ben!"

As Bashir quickly found the injured child and dropped to his knees beside him, Ben's eye fell on the blood-smeared pitchfork, and he frowned in puzzlement. "But Humphrey said you saved Cletus before…"

"Ben!" Bashir hissed. Startled, Ben's eyes met his for a moment, and he drew his finger sharply across his throat. _I'll explain later,_ he mouthed, just as Humphrey appeared behind Ben.

"That don' look like no kitten to me," Ben pointed out to the other slave. "If you knew he was hurt, why didn't you tell the doctuh?"

Humphrey blinked. "He's black," he protested, as if that explained everything.

"That don' matter," Ben insisted. "If he needs a doctuh, Massa Bashir don' care if he's orange with purple polka dots."

Bashir looked up, startled that Ben should have chosen the same example he did. But then, he reflected, that alien he treated on the station _had_ had rather memorable coloring.

"Massa won't pay him for it," Humphrey said doubtfully.

"He don' care 'bout that, either," Ben assured him, watching as Bashir tenderly lifted the child onto the hay bales.

He treated the child's foot with gentle care, and then had Ben carry him to the shack where he lived with his parents. When they had taken their leave of Leanthy, they returned to their room in the boardinghouse, and as the door shut behind them in privacy, Bashir turned to his slave. "You had a question, Ben?"

"Yes, suh," he admitted. "When I first met Humphrey, he tol' me what a good massa you was, an' that you helped Cletus after he ran a pitchfork through his foot."

"And you're wondering why it seems he remembers none of that, and the same thing happened again," Bashir finished.

"Yes, suh."

"It's because we're trapped in a holoprogram," Bashir explained. "With a limited number of scenarios that can happen, I suppose they're bound to start repeating themselves."

"Don' it seem kinda useless treating that boy, if you know it's jus' gon' happen again?"

"Yes," Bashir admitted. "Though I've treated real patients knowing they were quite likely to injure themselves the exact same way again in the near future… To turn my back on that kind of suffering — even knowing it's not real and will happen again no matter what I do — would kill something inside me, Ben. It would make me less a man; as much a monster as that man who could talk about drowning children like kittens."

**oOo**

"I have to check on Cletus' foot before we drive out to the Honeymead plantation," Bashir told Ben as he dressed the next day.

"I c'n hitch up while you do," Ben suggested.

"No!" Bashir said sharply, then at the startled look of hurt that flashed into Ben's eyes, immediately tempered his voice. "I mean, I'd rather you stay with me."

"Whatever you say, Massa," Ben said dully, and Bashir wished he could apologize, could explain the fear that had sharpened his voice.

Since noticing how events had begun to repeat themselves, he had started to be paranoid about letting Ben out of his sight around other people, afraid that the scene where he was found by slave traders would reenact itself, and Bashir's search for him would begin all over again. Aside from any injuries to Ben, he feared he didn't have enough money to purchase the slave a second time — though in worrying over it in the dead of the night he had reasoned it would not be morally wrong to rob holograms of holographic money in order to help a real human being. But even if he could pull off a bank robbery, it would not prevent Ben from being further hurt in the meantime.

He dared not tell Ben of his fears, not wanting to destroy the small sense of safety his presence offered. And without explanation, he couldn't even apologize for the unnecessary harshness of his voice that had made Ben feel himself even more a slave. He settled for gently squeezing the man's shoulder as he passed, hoping the human touch would convey what he dared not try to express in words.

**oOo**

Leanthy eyed Bashir with suspicion when he and Ben arrived at the little shack. "Don' know what you think you needed to come back here for," she protested. "Us darkies can take care of ourselves without a white man's help."

Bashir didn't bother to respond, crossing to the pallet where Cletus lay whimpering softly as he shifted restlessly on the pillow. "He's feverish," Bashir accused, resting a hand for a moment on the boy's forehead, "so don't tell me he doesn't need a doctor."

"It hurts, Massa!" Cletus whimpered.

"I'm sure it does, buddy," Bashir said soothingly. "But you're going to be all right."

"Jake," Ben whispered brokenly, looking at the boy's pain-filled face.

Bashir's eyes shadowed, understanding that Cletus must remind Ben of his son. "Miles will find him, Ben," he said softly. "We'll get him back for you, I promise. His son," he explained to Leanthy. "He was sold before I bought Ben; I have my agent looking for him."

"Don't know why you bother," Leanthy remarked sourly.

"Because no family should be split apart," Bashir said firmly, "no matter what the color of their skin."

He knelt beside the pallet, opening his bag on the floor next to him. "Let me just listen to your heart a minute," he murmured, pressing his stethoscope to the boy's thin chest.

"What good you think that gon' do?" Leanthy taunted scornfully.

Bashir glanced briefly back at her, but didn't respond. "Good," he said finally. "No sign of shock, anyway, so let's take a look at that foot, shall we?"

Cletus whimpered as Bashir unwound the bandage, feebly attempting to pull his foot away. "Easy," Bashir soothed. "I know it hurts, but I have to see how bad the infection is." As the last fold of bandage fell away, Cletus' foot emerged swollen and hot to the touch. The boy's dark skin hid any redness, but as Bashir gently turned it to view the paler sole, he saw the tell-tale red streaks of infection. Thankfully, they barely reached to the heel; there was still a chance of saving the foot if he could get it cleaned out. He wondered briefly if his makeshift swab had missed some contaminated particle, or if the whiskey hadn't been a strong enough disinfectant — or even if it was written into the program that Cletus' foot would become infected, and nothing he did could possibly have made a difference.

"Ma'am…Leanthy," he caught himself, looking up toward her, "I'm going to have to operate and clean this out again."

"I cain't stop you, Massa," Leanthy said scathingly.

"He's strong enough to put him under this time, so he won't feel anything," Bashir assured her. "Ben, I'll need you to monitor his vitals while I work."

"Me, suh?" Ben asked blankly.

Bashir eyed him searchingly for a moment. Even if his subservience was less an act than the doctor would prefer to believe, he had received a Star Fleet officer's first aid training; as dreamlike as that world must seem to him now, he couldn't have forgotten all of it.

"Yes," Bashir said briefly. "Just watch his pulse and breathing, and let me know of any change; you'll do fine. Leanthy, I need some strong lye soap and hot water."

Leanthy gestured with her chin without speaking, her resentment obvious. She would hate him simply for being a white man, he knew, even if he saved Cletus' life.

Getting up, he crossed to scrub his hands with the harsh soap. He had washed up with whiskey when nothing else was available, but preferred not to be left smelling like a drunk the rest of the day.

Once the boy was sleeping deeply, Bashir made an incision, pus welling out as he enlarged the wound in the top of Cletus' foot. He wiped it away, then swabbed deeply into the cavity to get all the infection.

He stitched the incision closed, but left the wound in the sole open to drain.

Leanthy had remained disapprovingly silent throughout the operation, but now she spoke. "I gots some salve that's good for wounds, if you ain't too proud to take it from a darky."

The first time he played this scene, Bashir had questioned her closely about what was in it. Now, he merely smiled his thanks as he accepted, anointing the wound with the thick salve before once more bandaging it.

"He's wakin' up, suh," Ben said quietly.

"Good," Bashir approved, checking Cletus' pulse. "Once he's conscious I can give him a dose for the pain, and then I'll be on my way."

Leanthy snorted softly.

"And out of your hair," Bashir added drily. "But I'll be back this evening to check on him."

**oOo**

Humphrey was watching anxiously for Dr Bashir when he and Ben arrived at the livery stable. "Massa Doctuh, Cletus is bad sick."

"I've seen him, Humphrey," Bashir assured him, marveling at the difference between Humphrey and Leanthy. Humphrey was amazed that a white man could be kind, but accepted it once he was convinced of it. Leanthy had been made bitter by years of slavery; she hated all white men, but believed herself that it was proper and right for them to be her masters.

As he looked at Humphrey now, a suspicion began to grow in his mind that hadn't occurred to him before. "Humphrey…Cletus isn't really your son, is he?"

"No, suh," Humphrey admitted in a low voice.

"It was a white man, wasn't it?"

"Yes, suh…but he weren't no man."

"Monty?" Bashir guessed.

"Yes, suh."

Bashir shook his head in disgust. "He can't have been older than fifteen!"

"Yes, suh."

"Does he — know Cletus is his?"

"Yes, suh," Humphrey repeated in the same dull tone. "That's why he like tormentin' him so much. But I claim 'im as mine, an' I love him like my own son. He gon' be all right, massa doctuh?"

Bashir forced a smile, disgusted at Monty's behavior. "Yes," he promised. "I cleaned out the infection; he'll be fine." He spoke with more assurance now than the first time he had treated Cletus for this infection, trusting that the scenario would play itself out as it had done before, and Cletus would indeed be fine.

THE END

**A/N: At first I was going to do both parts the first time they happened, and then (once it occurred to me that this wouldn't likely be the only doctor part that only happened once…), I thought of doing them both the second time they happened. Then I thought of doing both, and I like how it emphasized the repetition! Barbie**

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


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